


The Sparrow People

by Wingittofreedom



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Culture, Crash Landing, Crossdressing, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fake Marriage, Fruit, Humor, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Past Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Past Sexual Abuse, M/M, Pastoral Setting, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Weight Loss, UST, Updates Thursdays, and there was only one bed, food as a love language, referenced homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/Wingittofreedom
Summary: 5 months after Nero, tensions are high between Jim and his first officer Spock. After a crash landing on an unknown planet, they're rescued by kindly aliens…who happen to think Jim is Spock’s wife. A story about secrets and fruit.Updates weekly.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 905
Kudos: 1010





	1. Spinoza

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729140) by [walkandtalk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkandtalk/pseuds/walkandtalk). 



> Gentle reader, for this story I learned all sorts of things, like how to operate a wood stove, techniques for trouble-shooting an engine, and methods for harvesting grain. Also, the meaning of true love. Please enjoy the fruits of my research, this silly pastoral romance.
> 
> Thanks especially to Bee for the beautiful art, [@drmccoynextdoor](https://drmccoynextdoor.tumblr.com) and [@madeofmydreams](https://madeofmydreams.tumblr.com) for your encouragement, to  
> [walkandtalk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkandtalk/pseuds/walkandtalk) to whom "gentle reader" belongs, and to my beta [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) who is amazing. I love you guys 💛  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The liar's punishment is, not in the least that he is not believed, but that he cannot believe anyone else.”  
> ― George Bernard Shaw, _The Quintessence of Ibsenism_

Rain pounded against the windows as the shuttle hurtled downwards. Ground raced towards them, and Jim cursed when he saw where they were going to land.

“Fuck.” Jim’s eyes met Spock’s. “Brace yourself.” 

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

_One Day Earlier_

A knock on Jim’s door startled him out of his reverie. Tensing, he quickly set down his book.

“Gimme a sec!” he called out, standing and feeling all the blood rush to his brain. Biting back a curse, he scrambled to get the towel off his head—realizing too late that _‘gimme a sec,’_ probably wasn’t something a Starfleet Captain would say. 

Hopefully it was just Bones here to gripe about something. 

Towel shoved hastily under his bed, half-finished dinner chucked into the recycler— _fuck,_ it sounded like he’d broken the plate—and room checked for cleanliness _(did barren count as clean?)_ , Jim staggered to the door still lightheaded and half-blind. Pausing to pat his damp hair into what he hoped was something other than wild spikes, he slammed his hand against the door button to open it as the swirling static obscuring his vision dissolved to reveal his visitor.

It was Spock. 

_Of course_.

Unattractive and severe, his first officer looked even more unpleasant than usual in the harsh light of the corridor. His crisp uniform was accusatory in its neatness, and belatedly, Jim wished he’d thought to change out of his civvies. Despite being the nominal authority here, his off-duty jeans and t-shirt felt inadequate by comparison and he had to stop himself from gulping like a school kid who’d been caught breaking the rules.

 _God,_ Jim hoped his towel wasn’t sticking out from underneath his bed. It was _pink_ , and Spock really didn’t need to see that.

Forcing himself not to turn and check, Jim smiled as graciously as he could and gestured Spock inside. 

“Come on in,” he said genially, moving backward into the room as his mind raced. _Why was Spock even here?_ He never came to Jim’s quarters. A power play? Some kind of new intimidation tactic maybe?

“Would you like some tea?” he asked over his shoulder as Spock wordlessly followed him inside. _Tea_. Like Jim was attending the dowager queen of Andor or something. 

In response, Spock did nothing but raise a single, chilly eyebrow and Jim winced internally. _Fuck._ He could practically smell the oncoming carnage. 

With a sense of impending doom, Jim moved around the table, resolving to be as civil as possible. Meaning no matter how much of a dick Spock was, Jim would have to try to give him what he wanted.

That was the problem though. If Jim knew what that was—what Spock _wanted_ —this would all be so easy.

Usually, Jim never had to guess what people wanted. They wanted him, and that made everything simple. A little praise, a few casual touches and suggestive smiles and most people would become putty in Jim’s hands, half-promises and flattery buying goodwill, attention, or just a distraction for the night.

But Spock was unmoved by praise or by anything else Jim tried. 

Spock barely looked at him, and when he did, his cold, _puritanical_ eyes seemed to miss whatever it was in Jim’s face and body that everyone else was so captivated by. 

Flirting just made things worse, and casual touching was a big Vulcan no-no apparently, and no number of smiles could get _Spock_ to be any nicer. 

Interacting with him always left Jim irrationally ashamed of himself. Of how much he still relied on his appearance despite having spent the last several years trying to tell himself he was more than a pretty face.

Pushing these thoughts away, Jim resumed the seat he’d vacated on the couch. Across from him, Spock had taken a seat on the chair opposite, black eyes flicking coldly around the room.

Shoving down a wave of irritation, Jim focused on keeping his body language neutral. Irritation wouldn’t help—that at least, he knew, and he _needed_ to make this work. For the sake of the _Enterprise_ , and of his _job._

“You were reading,” Spock said, eyes landing on the book Jim had left splayed open on the table before flicking up to Jim’s face, focusing just above his eyes.

Reaching up to see if he had something on his face, Jim realized he was still wearing his reading glasses when his fingers knocked into them.

Chagrinned, Jim got them off, snapping them closed one-handed and sticking them in his pocket. Spock’s comment was an accusation. It might’ve been neutral from someone else, but from Spock it obviously meant _‘We are both aware that you are behind on your paperwork. If you turn it in late yet again, now I will know why, you lazy human brat.’_

What was more, Jim _never_ left his books like that usually, and shit, now Spock was going to think he was lazy _and_ a slob.

“Uh, yup,” he said shortly, reaching forward to right the book. 

“Spinoza’s _Ethics,”_ Spock said, observing the spine. “Why such a volume?”

_Oh!_

At Spock’s words, embarrassment was forgotten and Jim flooded with excitement, deeply flattered that _Spock_ would ask him for his thoughts on the book. He was thrilled at the opportunity to talk about it with someone, and to be honest, Jim was _particularly_ interested in what Spock would think of some of Spinoza’s ideas...Jim had maybe even played out one or two such conversations in his head—but Spock didn’t have to know that.

“It just seemed really interesting—I never went to college other than the Academy don’t cha know,” Jim said, a Midwestern idiom slipping accidentally into his hasty speech as he gestured with his hands. “—and I guess I wanted to know what the deal was? I don’t know anything about philosophy, and I don’t really _get_ a lot of what he’s saying, but well, I bet you’ve read it.” Jim stopped himself before he could babble any more, forcibly stilling his hands. 

Spock’s head did a micro-tilt. “Yes. He is considered to be irrelevant and rather simplistic by the majority of Vulcans,” he said. “However you mistook my question. I merely wished to inquire why you had chosen to read a paper volume rather than a digital one. Such a choice seems illogical.”

Jim felt the million things he’d wanted to say die at once on his lips, green things shriveling as they were doused in weed-killer.

Of course Spock didn’t want to discuss Spinoza with him. Spock didn’t want to discuss anything with him.

“Oh,” Jim heard himself say, humiliation burning through him. 

Sweeping all of that away in a second, Jim rallied, fixing the smile back on his face despite the tightness in his jaw.

“Who the fuck knows?” he asked, smirking as he leaned back. 

As he did, his shirt rode up, exposing several inches of his stomach and Jim didn’t break eye contact as he pulled it back into place. Slow and deliberately seductive, skating his fingers over the waistband of his jeans. 

His smirk ticked up a notch. “It’s like the difference between porn and actual sex. Totally different feel, you know. And the real thing is definitely better,” Jim said, watching Spock’s face to see if he’d react.

It was ironic really, that Jim’s only way of hitting back at Spock was being as crass, stupid and rude as Spock thought he was. But he was practiced at it. It was the sort of character he played with women in bars so no one got attached.

Unfortunately, Jim was disappointed this time when Spock did nothing more than continue to eye him as though he were a bug. Jim looked right back, smiling and thinking about how ugly Spock was, with his sallow, sharp-boned face and crooked nose. Ugly people were always mean.

Attractive people were mean too of course, but they were usually less obvious about it.

“So, what was it you wanted to see me about?” Jim asked pleasantly, folding his hands on his lap as though the last minute hadn’t happened. The vindictive rush of pleasure was already going cold. He was going to pay through the nose for that when Spock wrote his performance review. _God._

“As you are aware, tomorrow will be our final mission before we report to Starbase 14 for repairs and resupply. I wished to ensure that you have filed the appropriate paperwork, and that you are prepared for your role in the treaty signing.”

Renewed anger sparked in Jim’s gut. 

It wasn’t even a real treaty signing—just a party and reaffirmation of old truces so Spock must think he really was stupid. _And,_ the Starbase 14 stuff didn’t have to be turned in until two days from now. 

“Yes, I’m prepared. We went over everything during that last away-team meeting,” he said tightly, beating down the anger as best he could. “And I was planning to do the Starbase 14 paperwork tonight.” 

In a gesture that couldn’t have been an accident, Spock’s gaze flicked to the book on the table and Jim had to physically stop himself from cringing as Spock’s gaze returned to him, again settling just above Jim’s eyes.

“You may recall that you also stated that you were prepared for the mission on Adrastea Prime however that was not the case.”

What Jim wanted to do was chuck his book at Spock’s stupid, emotionless face and tell him where to shove it. Yes, okay, Jim had made a few mistakes, broken protocol and run off on his own sans security.

This upcoming mission was totally different though. Literally all Jim had to do was sign a piece of paper and not shake any hands—well, _appendages_ of any kind. The Dzha’al were many limbed and weren’t big on physical contact—and Spock thinking he could mess that up was insulting.

“Specifically,” Spock continued, voice boring into Jim’s thoughts. “You may also remember that the Dzha’al have strict laws regarding physical contact and I wish to emphasize the importance of you upholding them no matter your typical instincts.”

Jim felt like he’d been slapped in the face. 

Did Spock mean what Jim _thought_ he meant? That Jim would _sleep_ wi—

 _Oh but Jim, I_ like _seeing you this way._

Emptiness filled the pit of Jim’s stomach, and his anger vanished, replaced by a perfect, painful clarity. Dissociative, like the powerless bliss of a ketamine high.

So instead of ordering Spock out or jabbing back, all he said was “Yes, you’re right Mr. Spock, of course. I’ll go over the protocol again.”

“I wished to personally ensure that you are prepared,” Spock said, not budging. “Are you amenable?”

 _Translation: I clearly don’t trust you to do it yourself_.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Jim nodded and told Spock that was a great idea. And he did his best to listen, as Spock pulled out a PADD and began essentially re-doing Jim’s paperwork for him before starting in on his Starbase 14 stuff, narrating as he did so in a steady monotone. 

Jim knew if he could listen, he’d probably actually learn something, but it was hard to focus because it felt like there was a wall between them, suffocating him and stopping sound.

“Thanks Mr. Spock,” he said, a half hour later, giving his first officer a cheery wave before showing him out of his quarters. 

Looking back at him from the corridor, Spock’s eyes shifted. Jim thought he looked almost like he wanted to say something, but if he did, Jim was way too fed up to hear it.

“Have a nice evening,” Jim said, pressing the button so that the pneumatic doors slid shut between them.

As soon as they were closed, Jim leaned against them, exhausted.

 _“Man ‘Just trying to read’ viciously attacked on an ideological level,” headline reads,_ Jim thought, his mouth twisting down. 

_If only it were that simple_.

His life would be so much easier if he could just dismiss Spock as an asshole, write him off as simply unimportant and wrong. 

But Jim couldn’t. Couldn’t because Spock really _did_ know what he was talking about, was so much better at this than Jim was, hundreds of times more competent and every put-down lent weight by the prophetic words of the Old Man from the other universe and Jim’s own knowledge that Spock was right; Jim _needed_ to be better.

Spock didn’t have to rub that in Jim’s face so fucking hard though. Like Jim was an idiot kid who’d gotten the captaincy with dumb luck and ‘cause his daddy was a Starfleet hero. 

_Bullshit,_ Jim told himself. Spock’s opinion of him was bullshit.

But that wasn’t really true, was it?

And wasn’t _that_ galling. 

Jim wasn’t stupid after all—Spock was dead wrong about that at least. He wasn’t Vulcan-smart either, but he also wasn’t blind to how these things worked. He knew he’d only gotten the job—the captaincy—because he _looked_ right for it. 

Sure, he’d been in the right place at the right time, helped save Earth etc. But just as importantly, he _looked_ the part. (Jim _always_ looked the part). Handsome, blonde, with blue eyes even, hero son of a hero from America’s heartland.

Image was currency, and that was what Starfleet needed right now. The photo that was everywhere—newspapers, internet, all of Starfleet’s new promotional materials—showed Jim, smiling and waving, with a serious-looking Uhura by his side, just disembarked from the _Enterprise_. Behind them were several other officers, including Spock, many of them aliens and all of them less in focus, clearly there to add a veneer of colorful diversity to the image.

The photo’s intent couldn’t have been more obvious. _Look at these two beautiful people. Wanna be like them? Join Starfleet._

Maybe Spock was right. 

Maybe Jim was just a spoiled brat. _A pretty face._

Clenching his jaw, Jim shoved those thoughts away, walking over to the table where he’d left his book and picking it up wryly.

He no longer had any desire to read it. 

He’d promised himself he would, had set aside this time a week ago specifically to read. But the relaxation from his earlier shower was gone and Spock’s words hung over him like an evil eye _._

_Irrelevant and rather simplistic._

Opening his dresser, he tucked it carefully back on the shelf where he kept the few books he'd brought with him at the start of the mission, reflecting that he was probably too stupid to get it anyway. 

_Not stupid_ , he reminded himself.

Really, Jim knew he wasn’t stupid. He had the scores to prove it. But philosophy and literature? Jim was a total amateur, trying to make up for too many wasted years. Even if he could get his mind around the ideas, he’d probably never been the right sort of person for that kind of thing.

Once the book was put away and the towel retrieved from under his bed, the room was empty again. 

Sighing, Jim scrubbed his eyes before heading over to his desk to do the paperwork he’d said he’d do, pulling on his headphones when his eyes started blurring over the screen, blasting the country music his mom hadn’t wanted him to like. The do-you-want-people-to-think-you’re-a-hick hill country music, why-should-the-devil-get-all-the-good-tunes stuff that reminded him of open spaces and the cowboys he always used to fantasize about before fantasies really weren’t worth it anymore.

An hour and a half later, Jim turned the terminal off. Getting up, he used all his remaining energy to pull off his pants and shirt, sneak into the Impassable Fortress that was his and Spock’s shared bathroom to brush his teeth, and then fall into bed.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to this by now. 

Ever since Nero had staged his sadistic, planet-destroying vengeance, his and Spock’s dynamic had been…well _tense_.

 _“The word is_ **_toxic_ ** _Jim,”_ he heard Bone’s voice in his head. _“He’s a bully, plain and simple, and he isn’t worth your time. Either set him straight, or ignore the bastard. Can’t you see what’s happening? We both know how you get obsess—”_

 _Shut up, Bones,_ Jim thought. 

But as in life, the Bones in his head never listened to anyone, and his mind began working back through the actual conversation they’d had last week: 

_“Jim, I’m worried about you. I’ve barely see you, and you'd lost eight and a half pounds at your last check-up. You’re starting to look downright scrawny, and Our Lady of Death’s really not a good look on you.”_

_“It’s rude to talk to someone about their weight ya know. Also—didn’t realize you were only friends with me for my good looks. That hurts man.”_

_“That’s_ **_not_ ** _what I’m saying and I’m your doctor you numbskull, it’s my job! Stop trying to avoid my point.”_

_“Yeah fine, okay. But eight pounds in five months Bones? Not exactly a cry for help. Being busy all the time does that to you Mr. Bags-under-the-eyes. Stop pretending this isn’t pot and kettle.”_

_“You’re misdirecting, and that’s eight and a_ half _to you_. _Yes, you’re right, that much in five months wouldn’t normally be that big a dip, but you’re 5’11’’ and you didn’t have a lot of extra weight to lose to begin with. If it gets much worse—sixteen being the cutoff point to be exact—you’ll be officially underweight for your height category and I’ll have to report it to Starfleet. I won’t want to, but you know how that’ll look, with Tarsus in your history. You’ll be put under review.”_

Jim made an annoyed sound, turning over on his side. It wasn’t that serious, of course _._ Being busy meant less time for sit-down meals and Bones enjoyed being over-protective and paranoid.

And Jim hadn’t been exaggerating about the bags under Bones’ eyes either _—_ poor guy. He’d only been able to talk to his daughter twice during their mission so far, what with being out of comm range, and the stress was starting to take its toll. 

They were _all_ stressed, Jim knew.

Ever since Nero, downtime had been scarce. 

Vulcan had been a cornerstone of the Federation, and without it, the tentative peace talks with Romulus had been shot to hell, and the Federation had been plunged into chaos. Uninformed fear of Romulan terrorism spread like wildfire, easily stoked into hatred by latent Eugenicist reactionaries. The influx of Vulcan refugees was just more fodder for the flames, and back on Earth, xenophobia had spiked to an all time high since First Contact.

With its ranks decimated and so many fires to put out, Starfleet had been at its wits end. 

And, in the absence of better options, the _Enterprise,_ as one of the few fully serviced ships remaining, had been booted back into space less than a month after the _Narada_.

Running damage control, they were pulling double the missions normal for a crew their size, darting from planet to planet and run ragged trying to ensure that none one did anything stupid. Stupid like succeed from the Federation or start a fucking civil war.

Jim got where Starfleet was coming from with all this—rock, hard place. But he didn’t have to like it. Learning everything on the go was hard enough without the added pressure of potential intergalactic collapse. Not to mention, that with so little time off and a grand total of one day of shore leave in five months, team dynamics had suffered.

Lingering resentment from the events of the day Vulcan had been destroyed weren’t helping matters either. Time was supposed to ‘heal all wounds,’ but fucking hell that was a lie. Time wasn’t a healer. It was a _liar_. A good one, that would help you forget if you let it, but it always took things you could never get back, and trying just made you naive.

Jim was used to it.

Actually that was a lie. Jim _had_ hoped, that after everything— _the Narada, almost dying, “It’ll work”_ —Spock would forgive him.

Or at least forget about it and sweep it under the rug.

But Spock hadn’t, and whatever he and Spock might’ve had, Jim understood he’d burned that bridge to the ground the moment he’d stepped over that line, gotten Spock to lose it and take a swing at him. 

Jim, idiot that he was, kept trying to fix things anyway. He kept trying to be nice, to be civil, long after it became obvious that none of his attempts would ever bear fruit. If anything, they just seemed to make things worse. 

Spinoza. Case in point.

So Jim _didn’t_ need Spock to like him. He _didn’t_ care about that, other universe friendship be damned. All he needed was for he and Spock to get along well enough to pass muster. ‘Pass muster’ meaning that Jim didn’t get fired when Spock turned in his character evaluation of him when performance reviews were due in a few months.

_Fuck._

“Lights to 0%,” Jim said, forcing himself to relax. It was late. He needed to start going to bed earlier.

Darkness did nothing to calm Jim’s swirling thoughts, but he had long practice at focusing them onto pleasanter subjects.

Spock was impossible, but that didn’t matter. 

Jim had faced the impossible his whole life. Nowheresville Riverside to Tarsus IV; the Starfleet entrance exams he’d had to take twice ‘cause having off-the-chart aptitude scores couldn’t make up for years of college he hadn't had; bar-brawling to being in the fast-track at the Academy; the grueling effort and almost no social life it'd taken to graduate in three years in the top five percent (his mom had been so goddamn proud); three rounds of the _Kobayashi Maru;_ Nero. Jim had beaten them all. 

There was no such thing as impossible.

And Spock? He was just one more ugly, no-win scenario in Jim's way.

Jim would be _better._

Because steep learning curve and thorns in his side or no, Jim _loved_ his job. He'd been in a shit place when Pike had scraped him off the floor of that bar in Riverside, drunk off his ass and bleeding, not listening as Pike blabbered on self-righteously about _honor_ and _purpose._

But he'd listened more than he'd realized, it turned out. Because when he'd woken up the next morning, he'd known what he wanted for the first time in years.

And Starfleet had filled him with a purpose, just like Pike'd said it would, the arrogant old bastard. It'd given him an education, a job, and even friends (Bones, Sulu, Scotty, Uhura on good days).

Big responsibility though it was, Jim liked being a captain. Spock and all.

“Computer, play ambient white noise #97, volume 15%,” Jim said, pulling the covers up and imagining they were hugging him.

Closing his eyes, Jim fell asleep to the quiet humming of a starship engine at warp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of weight loss, brief allusion to past drug use, lookism, class anxiety
> 
> A/N: Jim and Spock’s appearances. I don’t picture them like the actors who play them (ty fanart). Imagine them how you like, knowing that in this story, Jim is very good-looking (it’s not just his vanity lol) and Spock is not conventionally good-looking.
> 
> Housekeeping: there will always be chapter warnings when needed since I can't cover *everything* in the tags. None of the trauma is written to shock, so nothing is graphic. Healing! Catharsis! 
> 
> Also, I cannot stress enough how pro-food + pro-eating + pro-enjoying your food this story will turn out to be. To quote a local genius "food is my love language." ty bee 💛


	2. D4G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta!
> 
> “Never drive black cattle in the dark.” —cowboys  
> Warnings in endnotes

Tugging at his collar, Jim glanced around the room full of stately diplomats and politicians, each with three to seven many-jointed arms and wallpaper skin, curling like madrone bark.

Discreetly checking his watch, he cursed internally when he realized it was still only 5:05.

Fancy-shmancy parties always made him feel out of place, and he wished he could spend the whole night talking to Bones. Hell, he'd even take that nerdy tech from engineering who'd piloted their shuttle. Actually, maybe especially that guy. A chirpy Andorian who'd spent the whole shuttle ride chatting Jim's ear off about deer and road saftey, of all things. 

But Bones wasn’t here, and it was Jim’s job to talk to these people and make them feel like the Federation cared about their small—and relatively unimportant in terms of strategy or resources—planet.

Smiling as the five armed Dzha’ali diplomat he'd been talking with turned back to him, Jim accepted the drink he was offered, making sure their hands didn’t touch as he performed the gesture of thanks. As he did, Jim noticed how the diplomat leaned back a little, taking him in with eight eyes that glinted with admiration as they lingered on his face and body. 

That was typical. Standards of beauty didn’t always transfer between species of course, but an appreciation for symmetry and proportion were fairly universal, and Jim had both of those in spades. 

_You're thinking that my eyes are an unusual shade of blue and wondering what I look like out of my clothes,_ he thought, still smiling at the diplomat.

Their conversation resumed. Nodding pleasantly along to what the diplomat was saying, Jim spoke only when he could tell the diplomat wanted him to. He’d noticed a long, long time ago that this was the best way to do things. People were never as interested in what he said so much as watching his lips move—imagining things he’d been too young to know about at the time.

True to form, ever since Jim had used this to his advantage, unconsciously at first, but then on purpose: figuring out quickly that he could get people to do what he wanted by making his lips form the right shapes. Jim never even had to lie. All he had to do was let people believe whoever they thought he was—easy, since people could always be counted on to fool themselves.

So Jim allowed the diplomat to do most of the talking, offering delighted, encouraging or shocked expressions as the conversation required, putting on faces and pretending he belonged here in this fancy room. Pretending it hadn’t happened when the diplomat wrapped several twig-like fingers around his wrist and ran them down his forearm, which he knew _wasn’t_ supposed to happen since, yes, he’d gone over the protocol ( _twice_ — _thanks Spock_ ).Ignoring it when the next diplomat he talked to, a minister of something or other, laughed when the Dzha’al next to him whispered something insulting, about how despite having an impressive military, humans were hyper-sexual, illiterate barbarians, seemingly not caring that Jim could hear him.

Jim didn’t mind that much. All of that was typical. When you looked the way he did, you came to expect that sort of thing; people mistook a genial manner for reciprocated attraction, a promiscuous reputation for permission.

When Jim had been younger—before the reputation—he'd been confused and upset by it. Wondering if their was some, imperceptible mark on his face (the mole under his right eye? his expression?) that let everyone _know_. 

Now that Jim was older, he'd learned to love that feeling. _Seeing_ the effect he had on other people and relishing the power it gave him.

So if every now and then someone crossed a line, Jim didn't mind much. Or at least, he was good at making himself forget that he minded, which was a necessary skill on missions like this—for all officers involved.

These missions were _essential_ after all. Essential as in, somebody had to do them.

Once things cooled down and memories of Nero began to fade—once he’d proved that he and his crew were more than impulsive rookies who’d gotten lucky, the Admiralty would start assigning the _Enterprise_ more important missions. Missions which involved more tactical thinking than glad-handing and paint-by-numbers smiles entailed.

And it wasn’t exactly that Jim didn’t enjoy those things. Putting people at ease and making them feel important, schmoozing and ignoring slights—he’d always been pretty good at. It was just—he was starting to feel that that’s all he’d ever be. That this obliging, obsequious version of himself was who he _was._

The conversation ended and Jim smiled a final, charming smile before moving away across the room. More delegates to talk to. 

_Wait, what was_ — _?_

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Jim turned his head sharply to see what it was. 

A small, wobbly shape looked back out at him from a dark window, narrowed eyes sizing him up from a lean face. 

It took his brain a few moments to realize the face was _his_ face.

 _Bones was right_ , he realized, blinking at himself. Even distorted by the warp of the glass, he looked wan and too peaky, shadows a shade too dark under his cheekbones and eyes a tad too big in his face.

It _wasn’t_ a good look on him. 

Bones was right about that too. The too-perfect shapes of his mouth, eyes, and nose—superficial, cursed perfection which had done him more harm than good—looking worse for wear, less attractive than usual in a face that was gaunter than it should’ve been, dumb-blonde hair dull even in the flattering light of the wall sconce.

Jim looked away, swallowing convulsively as he glanced around to see if anyone had caught him looking. No one had, and Jim moved on, resolving to take better care of himself once he got back to the _Enterprise_.

Though as he walked away, towards the next, interminable conversation, a small part of him took a tight, bitter pleasure in the fact that he probably looked more like he felt on the inside than he ever had before.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

At last, the evening came to an end and the away team made their way out to the shuttle pad. 

Jim was tired and _hungry_. He hadn’t eaten much of anything that day and he _hated_ eating at parties—all the fancy food embarrassed him, and he didn’t know how to eat it without shoving it in his face like a greedy slob.

And no, thanks, it wasn’t because of Tarsus. Or at least not really. Yeah, fine, Jim had been hungry and scared for a day or two, hiding in the belly of an old grain truck with several other kids on its way to safety. But honestly everything had happened so fast, had been so abstract, that it hadn’t affected Jim much. At least not compared to the people who’d seen friends and family taken or been old enough to understand what was going on. Jim had been one of the _safe_ ones.

Sure, he’d come back more skittish, even less likely to trust, a little angrier and with a stronger need to just _disappear_ sometimes. But none of that was _new._ Tarsus had only exaggerated traits Jim’d already had, and for which the groundwork had been laid long before.

What he wanted now was to beam up to his quarters, replicate the closest approximation to really shitty SpaghettiOs he could get, and then fall asleep.

But he was a captain, he reminded himself, and he didn’t get to do that. 

“Ensign Muñoz,” he said, nodding at one of the communications officers. “Call a beam up for the four of you. I’ll take the shuttle back.” At least he’d be alone this way.

“Captain, your order cannot be carried out as stated,” Spock said. Jim involuntarily clenched his teeth. “I will accompany you as Starfleet regulation 91.4 states that a minimum of two personnel are required to—”

“Yes, of course. You’re right Mr. Spock,” Jim said tightly. “Just the three of you then, Muñoz.” 

_Jesus._ Jim knew the goddamn regulation, but literally nobody cared about it. Spock—the sanctimonious bastard—probably just thought Jim was drunk. And Jim _wasn’t_ drunk. By. The. Way.

As soon as the three ensign’s disappeared, Jim ducked into the shuttle. He was hungry, tired and now he had to deal with Spock’s backseat driving.

Despite all this, he felt a bit better when he sat down in the pilot’s seat. Familiar smells of hot metal, gasoline and ethyl formate—basically tequila for spacecraft—tickled his nose. Jeez, Jim _loved_ machines. The alcohol smell reminded him of his mom. Like the too-sweet Michelada’s she’d liked to drink sometimes, sitting in the living room in her stuffed rocking chair and always laughing about something.

Flicking through the takeoff protocols, he was just a few steps away from liftoff by the time Spock took a seat in the co-pilot’s chair.

“Did you perform a check of supplemental life support systems?“

“Mhmm.” Jim didn’t even look up. Flying a shuttle was Starfleet basic 101 and Jim could do it with his eyes closed. Even so, he half expected his fingers to make a mistake as he input the final controls, betraying him and proving Spock right.

But everything went smoothly and soon the shuttle was ascending rapidly through a pink sky, full of soft clouds that didn’t suit Jim’s mood at all. 

“Our fuel levels are below 40%,” Spock informed him curtly, headset on and broadcasting their signal to any other in-atmo craft to avoid collisions.

Brows furrowing, Jim checked the gauge. Hmm. That _was_ a little low. 

“We’ll be fine,” Jim decided. They had more than enough to make it back. _Enterprise_ was only a few thousand klicks away, orbiting a nearby planet since _Dhazal_ was too small, and had too much atmospheric debris for Starfleet orbital safety standards.

There was a pause as Jim adjusted their heading, shuttle jolting as they were buffeted by the jetwash of lower atmosphere. A moment later, the turbulence lessened and the shuttle's keel evened out as Jim maneuvered them above the cloud layer. 

“The Minister of Cultural Affairs insulted you,” Spock said into the relative silence.

Jim’s mouth thinned as he reduced drag, steering the shuttle in a dogleg. _Yeah, and that’s your job_ , he thought. He almost said it out loud, followed by _‘I should’ve told him I was taken,’_ because he knew the double entendre would shut Spock up.

Jim wasn’t sure _why_ it would, of course. 

He suspected it was homophobia. There were several Federation planets where being gay was taboo to varying degrees, and for all Jim knew Vulcan had been one of them (hell, it was still taboo on Earth in some places, the after-effects of the Eugenics Wars still a spanner in the works of social progress). Alternatively, Spock's reactions could be some kind of Vulcan prudishness. Or, that Spock actually _was_ gay and didn’t apprecitate the insinuation that he could ever be interested in someone like Jim. 

Could be all three, for all Jim knew. Not that he cared, of course. Spock could go dry hump a physics textbook—or however it was Vulcans got their rocks off—for all Jim cared.

But making Spock lose it and drop the bullshit Vulcan act, even a little, was satisfying.

But as satisfying as the idea was, the thought of upcoming performance reviews kept Jim’s mouth shut. No double entendres or low-hanging fruit. He’d done enough damage already and he was still hanging on to hope that he could turn things around.

In the silence after Spock’s unanswered jab, the tension had ratcheted up a notch, and Jim could feel it skitter in the air between them, almost _goading_ him to say something back, despite his decision.

So he focused on flying: increasing the thrust along the gravity turn trajectory, and neither of them spoke as they approached the tropospheric boundary, picking up speed. A tiny part of Jim wanted to turn the shuttle around and do a 100 klick dive back to the planet at top speed—just for the hell of it. Because it would be _fun._

He didn’t, of course. That was exactly the sort of stunt Spock would use to get him permanently banned from the service before he could say _‘just kidding.’_

“Approaching orbital escape velocity, Captain,” Spock said just as they began to break atmosphere, shuttle shuddering violently, the sound of the ion thrusters rising as the turbines expelled huge amounts of air to overcome the drag fighting the shuttle’s hull. “All systems normal.”

Nodding, Jim let the shuttle fall along the elliptical orbit for a few clicks before breaking through into the yawn of space, propelled by a weak gravitational slingshot.

The nav panel hummed as Spock input the coordinates of where _Enterprise_ should be right now—near Starbase 14, somewhere it its orbit of Harga II, one of the larger planets of the hundreds that filled this crowded system.

After they’d cruised for about ten minutes in total silence, Jim was beginning to feel the stirrings of something that felt disturbingly like _moral discomfort_. Maybe Spock had just been trying to see if he was okay with his earlier comment, and Jim had been rude to snub him.

Alright, that was unlikely.

...But maybe Bones was right and Jim should stop dodging his problems. This would probably be the best chance he got.

“Hey Spock,” he began, steeling himself and pitching his voice over the static of the comms. _Fuck you, Bones._ “I think we should talk about—”

“Captain,” Spock interrupted rather sharply. “There appears to be an issue with the ion drive. The shuttle’s heat-flux is rapidly spiking.”

“Shit,” Jim said, brain switching tracks immediately. That wasn’t _necessarily_ critical, but he didn’t like it. “Contact the _Enterprise_ just in case, I’m gonna check the D4G—you see if we can reroute some of the coolant to minimize the overheating,” he tacked on as an afterthought.

Without waiting for Spock to argue, Jim exited the cockpit and darted to the back of the shuttle. Visible through the clear operating window, and located between two relay systems, the D4G—the dual-stage 4-grid—was the most important part of the engine.

 _Fuck,_ Jim thought when he saw it. The goddamn gas distributor was out of alignment. Just by a bit, which is probably why he hadn’t noticed anything before, but this wasn’t good. A plasma coil started sparking and Jim smelled burning rubber.

 _Overheating, could cause a system shutdown_ , his mind supplied. Wasting no more time, Jim accessed the system controls, pulled up the code, and input several commands.

Even as he watched the distributor swivel back into place, Jim knew with a sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to be enough. He hoped it would be—but no. A warning light started to flash red on the display and a klaxon sounded throughout the shuttle and—

“Captain, heat flux will shortly reach critical levels,” Spock said from the cockpit. “Estimated 3.41 minutes before engine power must be cut off lest we risk engine implosion which would result in—”

“Death, yeah,” Jim said darting back to the pilot’s seat. “ _Enterprise_?” 

“There is too much interference and I am unable to get through.”

Jim cursed internally. Fuck. _Fuck_. Why hadn’t the computer alerted him to the problem before takeoff? Doing a manual check on a grid should’ve been redundant. This _couldn’t_ be happening. 

Except it was, and he had to deal with it.

“We’re going to have to make a detour. Keep trying to contact them,” he said, steering the shuttle towards the nearest planet—which thank god, the readout said M-class—several hundred clicks away.

“Captain, at our current distance from the planet you have laid course for, the primary engines will fail approximately 1 minute and 53 seconds before we are able to land,” Spock said. “Secondary engines, even if we divert them from their life support, environmental control and other minor functions will not be sufficient for a safe landing.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jim snapped, already working to cut all unnecessary power expenditures.

Inside the shuttle was tense, silence interrupted only by the klaxon—until Jim shut it off out of frustration—and Spock’s attempts to get in contact with the Enterprise, all of which produced nothing but static.

“One minute until primary engine implosion,” Spock announced just as Jim brought the shuttle into partial orbit around the unknown planet. It was dark side up, but there wasn’t time to circle around. Bringing them into full orbit and cutting the engines now was a no-go as well. Without thrusters their orbit would decay pretty damn quick, and with so much interference, there was no guarantee that they’d be able to contact the _Enterprise_ before they collided with the planet. Taking them in now would mean they’d have the secondary engines at least.

Glancing at Spock, all this passed between them in a single look, and Spock—who Jim was sure knew the probabilities better than he did, confirmed “A crash landing will be the most expedient option.”

“What’re our chances?” Jim asked, even as he began maneuvering the shuttle into the atmosphere.

“57% depending on terrain and if the secondary engines continue to function,” Spock said.

“I can work with that. Give the primary engines 30 more seconds and then power them down. I’ll get us down with whatever’s left. Seat belts on,” he said, activating his security harness.

Spock nodded, activating his as well. And despite their chances being basically 50/50, Jim was determined not to die this way. Not over some stupid malfunction with _Spock_ by his side. Secondary engines, he knew, couldn’t produce enough power to keep them aloft, but he’d have maneuverability, and hopefully they’d be able to coast gently down onto somebody’s tomato field. 

_That’s what’ll happen_ , Jim told himself. He was the cat with nine lives after all, should’ve died too many times before and hadn’t. Today wasn’t the day and he wasn’t about to drag Spock into his bad luck. Glass half full. He could do this.

As soon as they entered the atmosphere, Jim knew instantly their chances would be a lot lower than 57%.

Ripped violently to the left and tumbled sideways, the shuttle’s metal plating screamed as it grated against itself.

Lightning split the sky outside and Jim bit back a scream of his own as the shuttle barrel-rolled through violent, purple sky. Pressure grew in his ears and it felt like his head was being crushed by huge, unyielding hands.

“What was that about 57%?” Jim panted, muscles straining, his whole body hanging sideways while he attempted to right the shuttle even as they were knocked diagonally down by another brutal push.

Lights in the shuttle winked out, plunging them into deeper darkness. Shades of black collided in the murk, like that stupid thing Bones always said about _not driving black cattle in the dark,_ the phrase rolling through his head nonsensically.

Fighting for breath, Jim tried not to panic. The shuttle wasn’t listening to him, wind refusing to give back control. 

“Primary engines are no longer serviceable,” Spock said tightly, ignoring Jim’s comment. “I am rerouting all remaining power to the secondary engines.” As he spoke, there was another flash of lightning and Spock’s face and hands appeared, stark white before everything went dark again.

Jim was beginning to think the extra power wouldn’t have mattered much anyway as they were knocked sideways again. Traveling what might have been several yards or several _miles_ in a few seconds, he clenched his hands around the throttle as he was thrown sideways in his harness.

Barely able to see, winds hounding the shuttle like a pack of howling dogs, Jim nevertheless attempted to steer them downwards with what power he had, trying to find the ground whenever lightning illuminated the sky for brief seconds—until they were violently shoved downwards by another wind, and the jagged, rocky mountains below them became all too clear.

“Fuck,” Jim muttered, desperately applying as much thrust as he could to get them clear of the peaks that would almost certainly kill them. 

Nothing worked. The shuttle didn’t respond and they careened towards the jagged rocks, one of which rose suddenly in front of them, taller than the rest, and Jim pulled the yoke to the left. There was a horrible crunching noise that Jim could practically feel along his body and then the shuttle was free, wheeling away towards the rocks below as freezing air poured in from outside.

By some miracle, the winds flung them again, away from the rocks, ground underneath the shuttle flattening and the sky around them clearing a little, even as the shuttle tilted alarmingly downwards like the worst ever amusement park ride, Jim’s stomach giving way to a moment of terrifying weightlessness. The shuttle groaned, as though aware of the visceral wrongness of falling when it was supposed to fly.

The ground raced towards them, and Jim cursed when he saw where they were going to land.

“Fuck,” he said again, eyes meeting Spock’s. “Brace yourself, we’re going swimming.” 

“Secondary engine power at 21%. Impact in approximately 24 seconds,” Spock said as the dark water below them filled the screen. “Captain, if we do not survive, I would like you to know—”

“Jesus, Spock, what’s it with you and getting all sentimental at the last minute?” Jim snapped, mind skittering over the memory of another conversation in a different ship _(“Spock, it’ll work”)_. He yanked on the throttle again, trying to level them out as they hurtled downwards. “We’re _not_ gonna die. We’re going to be _fine_ , and then we can go back to hating each other.”

“I do not hate you,” Spock said, oddly quiet but still audible over the rushing sound of the wind.

Jim opened his mouth to respond, not sure what he was going to say—and he never found out, because that was when they hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of weight loss, unhealthy thoughts regarding eating, implied unwanted sexual advance (vague)
> 
> Notes: Slight change to canon. Spock and Uhura hugged on the transporter pad instead of kissing. A bit more ambiguous.
> 
> I was recently on the coast, walking down a road in the dark. The sky was dark and the mountainside was dark and the wind was very, very strong. I couldn’t see my feet or my hands, and I thought to myself, ‘this is exactly why you’re not supposed to drive black cattle at night.’


	3. S.O.S.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful drawing of Jim and Spock!  
> Warnings in endnotes

Dark water obscured most of view screen, and Jim’s hands scrambled, releasing his harness on the second try.

“Spock,” he called out, voice horse. 

There was no answer. 

Pushing himself up, he staggered as the shuttle floor creaked beneath him, almost falling onto the co-pilot seat. Spock was still sitting in it, unmoving, a smear of green blood dark on his forehead.

Not letting himself think about whether Spock was alive, Jim undid his harness in a blur. He could already hear water pouring in through the cracks in the hull and his mouth was full of the metallic bite of adrenaline.

Heaving Spock out of his chair and onto his back, Jim stumbled towards the shuttle door, freezing water rising around his ankles. Falling against it, his hand scrabbled at the durasteel before he found what he was looking for. He hit the button which unlocked, but didn’t open the door.

Starfleet training was kicking in at this point—they’d been tested on a similar scenario in the Academy pool, so Jim knew he’d have to wait for the shuttle to fill with water before the pressure would ease enough for him to open the door. Nerve-wracking as that was, he stayed focused, the adrenaline slowing his breathing as he found the security compartment which he knew held life-vests and emergency gear. 

Partly crushed, the compartment didn’t open after repeated tries, and Jim cursed. Fucking, fuck, _fuck_.

But the goddamn thing wasn’t opening, and with nothing to do but _wait,_ Jim knew he had to check if Spock was alive. He forced himself to, hand shaking as placed it on Spock’s neck.

And at first his fingers shook too hard to tell. But—before he could panic, he felt it. A pulse, slow but steady under his fingers. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jim concentrated on holding onto the door latch so he wouldn’t lose orientation if the shuttle flipped, listening to the sound of creaking metal. Freezing water was up to his waist now, and he held Spock as tightly as he could around his middle, waiting as the the water rose quicker and quicker, slowly sinking the shuttle.

At last, it was up to Jim’s chin. Tilting his head up and took a last breath before opening the latch, relieved when the door opened easily even as water rushed in above his head. 

Kicking free of the wreckage as it sank, Jim felt his leg scrape again a jagged edge and a dull pain coursed through his calf. Hoping his leg hadn’t been _sliced off_ , he focused all his energy on keeping a hold of Spock, fighting the vacuum that was dragging them both down.

Knowing that if he didn’t get to the surface soon, they’d both drown, Jim kicked as hard as he could, praying he was headed _up_ as his lungs started to burn, following the bubbles as his breath wooshed out.

A second later, his head broke the surface, and he gasped air. 

Oxygen rushed his brain, dizzying him, but as soon as he got his bearings, he dragged Spock up too. Flipping onto his back, he pulled Spock’s limp body up onto his chest as per Starfleet training, looping his arms through Spock’s. 

_Like an otter with a clam_ , his instructor had said.

Wasting no time as the freezing temperature of the water began shutting down his muscles, Jim craned his neck behind him and saw that they weren’t too far from the shore—maybe two hundred yards or so.

Jim began kicking, lugging Spock along and hoping he was going in a roughly straight line. He _had_ to get Spock to shore as soon as possible—he might need CPR, or have a spinal cord injury. Spock could be dying _right now_.

 _Don’t think about it_ , he told himself, focusing on his kicks.

A minute or so later, Jim began to come down from his adrenaline high. Which, of course, was the moment Spock chose to announce his return consciousness by coughing up water, struggling and elbowing Jim in the stomach so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

“Stop! I got you,” Jim gasped. “Spock, it’s me. I got you!”

Spock groaned, but his flailing ceased, and Jim refocused on kicking, which was getting harder and harder as his body grew increasingly numb. He knew if he didn’t reach the shore quickly, he’d freeze and both of them would die. 

“Almost there,” he promised wildly, willing that to be true. _Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die_.

“The Captain survived?” Spock asked weakly.

“Yeah. And his annoying first officer too,” Jim panted, craning his head again to see they were only twenty feet from the shore now. _So close._

Several kicks later, each weaker than the last as his legs started cramping, he tried lowering his feet. A shock of relief and exhaustion when through him with they touched something solid.

After that, it was a matter of staggering forward, supporting a Spock who was clearly awake but not yet coherent in mostly the right direction, almost falling several times.

When they at last reached the shore, Jim was so worn out and numb that all he could do was slump to the ground as soon as said ground was no longer wet or moving, face slapping against damp sand, legs seizing.

As he toppled, his ankle turned the wrong way underneath him— _ow_ —but he was too tired to do more than whimper. He didn’t even open his eyes as he felt himself being clumsily pulled further up the bank, damp sand sliding underneath him. 

Someone was saying something, but all Jim’s head was too full of the pound of _safe-madeit-good-notdead_ to hear _._

A small eternity later, he felt his brain coming back on line. He was soaking wet and shivering and his nose was filled with the smell of lake water. Wind pushed at his entire body, cold and sharp, and he could hear a distant rumble of thunder in the distance.

 _Guh_ , he wanted to be unconscious again.

Blinking, he got his eyes open, noting that at least it wasn’t raining here. The air was misty and the sky was white, making it impossible to tell what time it was.

“The storm appears to be primarily above the mountains to the northeast,” Spock said from somewhere above him, as if continuing his thoughts. His voice sounded almost...shaky, but he was talking, so that was good.

“Lucky,” Jim mumbled blearily, remembering those sharp peaks they’d almost died on as he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. He failed twice. His arms felt like jello.

“Luck is not a predictive factor in the study of weather patterns, which can be explained—”

“Shut up Spock,” Jim slurred. “Not dead. Jus’lemme be‘appy.”

Thankfully, Spock obeyed, giving Jim a chance to push himself into a half-sitting position and get his bearings. Pulling off a piece of eelgrass that had wrapped around his ankle, Jim spared a glance for the narrow, rocky beach they’d ended up on. 

Now, if only he could figure out why his calf was stinging he’d be ‘fucking peachy,’ as Bones would say. Eating something wouldn’t hurt either. Now that the adrenaline had worn off Jim felt shaky and cold—but there wasn’t time for that.

Forcing himself to sit up the rest of the way, Jim pulled his leg closer to see what was wrong.

As he did so the scratches and cuts on his arms and chest pulled and Jim’s breath hissed through his teeth as he saw the foot long slice on the back of his calf, his pants ripped up and mangled. 

“You are injured,” Spock said from over his shoulder.

Ignoring him, Jim finished ripping away the bottom of his pant leg, hands shaking a little. The cut wasn’t all that deep, but that wouldn’t matter if the water contained harmful bacteria. If it did, Jim was fucked. 

_Very handsome erstwhile shuttle-crash survivor consumed by flesh eating bacteria. Leaves one ship’s doctor very angry_ , the headline would read. _R.I.P_.

With that in mind, Jim chose to look on the bright side as he started binding the wound with the ripped material.

 _Jeez, where was Bones with his medkit when you needed him?_ Jim wondered as he clumsily did up the wound. Bones always seemed to be able to find Jim when Jim _didn’t_ want him to, so why not now?

That idea almost made him smile, as he pictured Bones, somewhere up in the sky—no doubt worrying his ass off already—sniffing him down like a bloodhound. It was an oddly comforting image just then.

Once he’d got the cut bound up as best he could (which wasn't very well at all), Jim got slowly to his feet on legs that felt like cold concrete. Gingerly, he tried putting weight on his injured leg. It felt disconcertingly delicate under him.

Ignoring this, Jim glanced over at Spock, assessing. 

He looked as bad as Jim felt: skin more pallid than usual—almost jaundiced in the pale light—and bangs plastered to his forehead, dripping water onto his poker face. A bruise was forming above his right eye around a small cut, slowly dribbling green blood.

It was easily the least put together Jim had ever seen him. Unfortunately, the circumstances made the sight a lot less satisfying than he'd always imagined it’d be and the sight of Spock's blood shot a bolt of fear through him, reminding Jim that he needed to focus.

Fully turning to face his first officer, Jim put his hands on his hips. “You okay?" He gestured to his own forehead. "How's your head?"

“Adequate,” Spock responded, straightening as though they were on the bridge. “I believe I sustained a mild concussion upon impact, however I have no other injuries.”

Jim frowned. Concussions were no joke. 23rd century medical innovation or no, brain trauma was still the most difficult injury to deal with, which meant they needed to get Spock off his feet as soon as possible.

Disregarding the sting of his calf, Jim stepped close, checking Spock's pupils—thankfully normal—and about to put hands on Spock’s shoulders, but remembering not to at the last minute. “Any nausea or confusion? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jim asked, sticking his hand in Spock’s face.

“I am experiencing none of those symptoms Captain,” Spock said, taking a step back. “However there is no shelter in our vicinity and current temperatures are not ideal.”

"Right," Jim said, unsure if Spock was bullshitting him but knowing time was of the essence and that he had to move on for both their good. "You don’t happen to know where we are do you?”

“I do not,” Spock said. “There are 547 planets and planetoids in this system, 201 of which are M-class. Based on our trajectory upon leaving _Dzha’al_ , I am able to narrow the list down to 32 possibilities.”

“Hm. Can’t you—I don’t know, figure out which one it is by what the soil looks like or something?”

“Forgive me, Captain,” Spock said, and unreadable though his face was, Jim got the impression that he’d managed to piss Spock off all the same. “But I did not memorize the soil composition of 547 planets that I was not expecting to visit.”

Abashed by this, Jim crossed his arms. “Great. Well, you didn’t happen to memorize whether any of the _32_ possible planets had giant, rampaging carnivores did you?” 

_You know, like the ones on Delta Vega,_ Jim thought sourly. Maybe it was the almost dying, falling out of the sky, or the freezing cold swim afterwards—or perhaps just being away from the ship and his captainly duties for the first time since the mission started, but all his bitterness and anger at Spock were welling to the surface, harder than usual to push down.

Taking a deep breath, Jim tried to calm himself as Spock responded.

“As I recall, 17 of them did.”

“Fantastic,” Jim muttered, walking like an old man up the small strip of sand which quickly turned into a rocky escarpment, trying not to limp. Hard work, since all he felt like doing right now was putting his face in his hands and have a good fuss about how he’d only wanted to eat his shitty replicated spaghetti and go to sleep. But Spock would _so_ judge him for that.

Climbing out of the slight depression the lake was in, Jim got his first real look at the landscape around them. 

Grass spread in every direction, pale under the pale light, rolling in hills and valleys until it reached the dark, rainy-looking mountain foothills in the distance.

It reminded him of the marshy valley lands he’d seen in old holovids at school—of Earth, as it’d been before 21st century climate change and the wars that followed. Patches of land he’d been brought to on school field trips so they could see the difference, or seen blurring by out the window whenever his mom’d brought him and Sam on one of the crazy road trips they’d taken whenever she lost her job. Woodbury, Frog Hollow, Cerro Gordo, banks of the Missouri River; ephemeral prairie pothole wetlands whose native species had gone extinct or nearly so as their marshy habitats were wiped out in the droughts.

23rd century restoration efforts were still underway of course, and many species were slowly being reintroduced—but Jim didn’t think those places would ever be the same again. Not like this.

None of these thoughts were helpful, and Jim pushed them away. Now that the shock was wearing off, the reality of the situation was really setting in, and Jim’s mind began flicking through next steps. 

Out in space, their ion trail was probably already dispersing, and would soon be too thin to track. And you could forget about in-atmo tracking. Even with the _Enterprise_ ’ _s_ powerful systems, tracking an ion trail through a thunderstorm would literally be a shot in the dark. 

And though Jim couldn’t work out statistics like Spock, even he knew that they were staring down the barrel, fighting time. According to Starfleet precedent if they weren’t rescued within the hour, chances of rescue would drop rapidly the longer they were here. Be here longer than a day, and chances were pretty much diddly squat.

This possibility was too grim to think about and Jim resolutely pushed the idea away. They _would_ be rescued. 

After all, the was the _Enterprise_ they were talking about. _Best crew in the ‘fleet,_ Jim thought proudly. His crew would find them—he just had to make sure they stayed alive until then.

Feeling for his communicator, Jim found it and was grateful that he had, at least, managed not to lose it during the crash. 

But when he flipped it open, the screen was disappointingly black.

“Remind me why they don’t make these things waterproof,” Jim muttered to himself before turning to address Spock. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that yours stayed dry somehow?”

“My communicator was lost during the crash, however I retained my tricorder, which is still functional.” 

_Well, shit_. 

Glancing around, Jim tried to decide what to do. He was cold, wet, and hungry, probably bedraggled as fuck and his limbs felt like cement, but there _had_ to be something he could do. 

If— _when_ the Enterprise came for them, it would be better if they weren’t about to freeze to death, but without any supplies besides a mushed protein bar that had somehow stayed in Jim’s pocket, a tricorder and a broken communicator, their choices were limited. 

As Jim saw it, they could either stay here and wait to get hypothermia, or use as much daylight as they had to look for signs of civilization, or at least shelter. 

According to his instincts (and his Starfleet wilderness training) the first thing you were supposed to do after ditching was triage (check), asses the condition of the shuttle (fucking vanished), find water (did _that_ too goddamn well), and next look for shelter and food. 

Food. _That_ was a good idea Jim decided. He worked the smooshed package out of his pocket, opening it and breaking the bar in half.

“Here, eat this,” Jim said, tossing Spock half the bar and ignoring the way Spock held it away from himself. With only two fingers, as though it were contaminated by Jim’s touch.

“I do not require sustenance,” Spock said. “Vulcans are more physically resilient and therefore you should c—”

“Don’t care. Eat it anyway,” Jim interrupted. “That water was freezing and it’s a good idea after a shock.” Jim took a bite of his own half to prove his point.

Although he could practically see _‘Vulcans do not experience shock’_ written in Spock’s eyes, at last Spock nodded. Turning away again, Jim chewed without tasting as he went back to thinking about what they should do. 

“We shouldn’t go far,” Jim decided after a moment. Walking would make sure they didn’t freeze and could lead to useful discoveries, but when the _Enterprise_ came for them, he didn’t want to miss the landing party. 

Besides, there was a cold wind still blowing so that he didn’t think they’d be able to start a fire out here if they needed to. “Let’s circle the lake and see if we can find an outlet and follow that.” 

_People like to live by rivers right?_ Jim thought before he remembered that he’d literally grown up in a place called Riverside.

Spock nodded again—and by the way, how was his uniform still in perfect, if soggy, condition? Jim was missing half a pant leg and his shirt was ripped. _Again._ Second this month. Jim would probably go down in history as the captain who had ruined the largest number of Starfleet issue command shirts, one man menace to quartermasters everywhere. 

Jim'd ripped so many that Bones had developed a crackpot theory two months into their mission, saying that the universe was satirizing Jim’s vanity.

Privately, Jim thought it more likely that the universe just wanted an eyeful.

 _Which probably means Bones has a point about the vanity thing_ , Jim thought wryly as he started trudging around lake. The earth was springy beneath his feet and covered in green stuff, the lake itself big and blue-green, parts of it hidden behind the rolling ground.

“Keep me updated on your head,” he called over his shoulder, grateful that his calf, while it stung, was able to bear weight and that his muscles were stiff but working. “If you get dizzy or something I wanna know because you told me and not because I hear you fall on your face.”

“Yes, Captain,” Spock said, managing to sound curt and composed despite the circumstances.

As he walked, Jim’s mind automatically went back to the shuttle, going over his pre-flight checks and trying to remember if he’d done something wrong. Any problems in the gas distributor should have shown up in the computer when he’d done a systems check. Had there been a bug in the system? Had they been sabotaged?

There was no way to know, not with the shuttle at the bottom of the lake, and his attempts to figure out what could possibly have gone wrong were as vain as his go at trying to wring his clothes out.

After about twenty minutes of walking, they did find an outlet to the lake, a stream which swelled into a small river as they followed it, bordered by drooping trees, sort of like the swamp maples around the Great Lakes, spike-rushes and tuckahoe, boggy ground making the footing unsure. 

Now that he was feeling a little warmer, Jim felt some energy creeping back despite the fact that it was technically ship’s night. What was Bones doing right now? he wondered. Probably driving himself and everyone around him nuts, cursing his luck that he’d made friends with the universe’s most accident prone individual: _James T. Kirk, ripper of shirts and loser of bar fights._

This thought made Jim huff a quiet laugh to himself, imagining those words on his tombstone.

“Captain?” Spock asked, reminding Jim that he wasn’t alone.

“Nothing,” Jim said, pushing away his thoughts of Bones. “Hey, how’s your head? Logic still working okay? What’s two plus two?”

“As I have told you, there is no need for such inquiries.”

_Yes there is._

Since Spock was behind him, he couldn’t see Jim’s mouth twist as the memory of Spock, unmoving with his head smeared in blood flashed through his mind. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jim forced himself to get a grip. 

But instead of calm, anger burned in the places that worry had left. Anger at Spock for almost dying or anger at himself for letting it happen—both, neither he had no fucking idea.

“C’mon Spock," Jim said in a tight, playful tone. "How about this one—scale of one to ten how great do you think my ass is? I know you’ve got an opinion,” Jim said, feeling that strange vicious anger seethe inside him. “If you get it right I’ll stop asking.”

Spock’s total lack of expression was his only response.

 _Jesus,_ Spock was sensitive. And Jim didn’t _give_ a fig what he thought, but silence returned in the wake of Jim’s comment and he had nothing to distract him from feeling his ankle throb with every step. Behind him, he heard Spock sneeze. 

_Shit_. 

Without his permission his mind skipped back to seeing Spock’s unconscious body again. And then back, further, to falling out of the sky and the moment before they’d crashed.

_I do not hate you._

Okay fine Spock. You just act like it at all times. Whatever floats your boat— _s_ _chmuck._

“Captain,” Spock said, breaking through Jim’s thoughts again.

“What?” Jim said, trying not to sound exasperated as he looked up—only to see why Spock was trying to get his attention.

“Oh good,” was all he had the energy to say.

A building, a little beaten down but entire was visible ahead and to their left, where the trees once again thinned out into the steep green hills.

Once they got closer though, Jim started to get suspicious.

“Why would they put it on the top of a hill?” he wondered aloud.

Spock gave him a questioning look. 

“Looks like a barn—but who’d want to walk up all that way if they didn’t have to? Especially having to carry or herd whatever they keep in there.”

Having grown up if not on a farm, then at least _around_ them, Jim knew about making sure you weren’t doing extra work.

“After observed the sediment by the river banks,” Spock said, “I believe we are in a floodplain or drainage basin. It is therefore likely that this structure was built at an elevation on purpose, with the knowledge that this valley could be flooded.”

Flooding didn’t sound too good, and Jim glanced at the sky, which was still white and mysterious. 

_Let’s hope it doesn’t rain then_ , Jim thought to himself. He didn’t like the idea of being trapped on one of the hills with no way off. He’d probably end up pushing Spock off and then feeling guilty as hell.

“Do you require assistance?” Spock asked when they reached the base of the hill, which was much steeper and taller than it’d looked from further away.

“I’m fine,” Jim said, glaring daggers at the ground. Jim was a Starfleet captain, and _Jesus Christ_ , he was not about to ask his Vulcan first officer to _carry_ him. Not even if his ankle were killing him twice as much as it was.

“Your ankle—”

“I _said_ , I’m _fine_ ,” Jim gritted out, interrupting Spock and starting up the hill. _God,_ why did Spock have to treat him like a spoiled baby? Jim was _fine._ Spock was _always_ trying to do stuff like that, correcting him, following him around and telling him what to do, taking his paperwork and doing it instead because he didn’t think Jim could do it right.

Man, if the _Enterprise_ didn’t come soon, Jim was gonna _snap_. 

On the way up the hill, Jim heard Spock sneeze twice more. _Jesus,_ he hoped to hell that Spock wasn’t getting pneumonia or whatever the Vulcan equivalent was. That would really just top this day off.

Once he’d reached the summit, Jim got the barn door open without much difficulty, a welcome stroke of good luck. Inside it was small but dry, empty with a dirt floor and a loft. 

Surveying it with his hands on his hips, weight on his good leg, Jim decided it was better than nothing. 

_Way_ better, he amended, when he heard the first few drops of rain patter against the barn roof. 

His stupid ankle was almost numb with pain after the climb, but if he started limping around, Spock would probably think he was faking it for sympathy or something. So he moved as steadily as he could. At the back of the barn, there was a pile of planks—more good luck. He figured they could work as firewood if he could only get some static electricity out of his dead comm.

 _Squatter’s rights_ , he reminded himself when he thought about the possibility that they belonged to someone already.

While Jim got on his knees in front of the planks—finally off his stupid leg—Spock rolled the barn doors closed as the wind picked up outside. 

The planks were too big to work for a fire, Jim decided. One of them had a nail stuck through it that was easy enough to pry loose, and, dubiously, he began scraping away, creating a shallow groove that could act as a pressure point. This was going to take forever.

“I believe I can break them,” Spock said from over his shoulder.

“Fine by me _,”_ Jim said, pushing the plank he’d been working on towards Spock. 

Fuck though, it was hard not to feel emasculated, watching Spock break the barely notched two-by-fours over his knee, making it look easy. _Bastard_.

Focusing instead on his comm, Jim opened up the back and pulled out the battery and some tightly coiled wires, peeling back the insulation so that the metal ends were showing.

Once enough of the large planks had been converted into matchwood, Jim got them positioned in a criss-cross pile with some fallen hay from the loft balled up inside. He’d figured out this way worked best, on that one, ill-conceived camping trip his mom had taken him and Sam on when he was seven. 

Touching a piece of wire to either end of the battery, Jim brought the other ends of the wire together over the straw, hoping there was enough juice left to short out the circuit and create some heat.

Thankfully, when the wires touched, sparks shot out and the straw inside caught. Small flames started spreading quickly, licking the wood and making the whole structure glow. Jim leaned in, cupping his hands around his mouth and blowing on the straw, praying the wood would catch too.

A minute later, Jim leaned back, watching with satisfaction as the flames began eating up the bits of plank. Rain was now battering the roof of the barn, the wind a rising and falling howl outside but fire meant they wouldn’t freeze to death, and he’d take just about anything just now.

Unfortunately, now it was lit, he had little to distract him from Spock, who had stopped sneezing and was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the other side of the fire. 

He had an annoying degree of poise under the circumstances in Jim’s opinion. 

Spock wasn’t looking at Jim though. He was looking into the flames. Firelight did something—but not nearly enough—for his complexion, his odd, space-pale face cut by flickering shadows and amber. His irises were larger than those of a human, obscuring more of his sclera, and in this light they were as black as ink blots. 

_Like a Rorschach test_ , flitted through Jim’s head. But instead of bats, butterflies and moths all Jim saw when he looked into them were his own failures mirrored back at him in their cold depths.

 _Whatever,_ Jim thought, deciding to ignore him, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his palms out to the fire. He was still damp from the lake, and the heat felt good just then and Jim found himself wanting a cigarette. He'd quit for good two years ago, but the fantasy was comforting—that was until he remembered how hungry he was a moment later when his stomach grumbled. 

Which was embarrassing as all get out—so of course Spock had to pick that moment to open his stupid, pretentious mouth.

“Why did you not consume any provisions earlier this evening?” he asked. “I have observed that this is a regular pattern for you.”

_What the fuck?_

Of all the jackass—Jim didn’t like questions at the best of times, but this took the _fucking_ cake. He’d been to Starfleet diversity training, and no, social standards were not the same on other planets as they were on Earth, but _come on_ —Spock must’ve done the training too. Tarsus IV was on Jim’s file, and wasn’t it like, _basic_ to not to ask a famine survivor about their eating habits? And Spock was _criticizing_ him for it— _fuck you._

“No reason,” he said, jaw clenched. “Why don’t _you_ eat any meat?” he asked as though he were a lawyer in one of his mom’s courtroom _telenovelas_ , catching the defense in a lie—like Alonso Vega in _Por Amar Sin Ley._

Spock raised an eyebrow. _God,_ he was so snide. “I am a vegetarian.”

“Hmf.” Jim focused back on his hands again. He didn’t know what the hell Spock expected. Every time he’d tried being the least bit honest or friendly, Spock had shut him down _‘faster than a scalded haint,’_ Bone’s Southern voice supplied helpfully, whatever the fuck a ‘haint’ was. Why would now be different?

“Captain,” Spock said, apparently not done bothering him. “You expressed a wish to discuss something with me before we were interrupted by the shuttle malfunction. Do you wish to discuss it now?”

Wracking his brains, Jim tried to remember what Spock was talking about but drew a blank. Had he actually been about to ask Spock why they couldn’t seem to get along? Forget that!

“I don’t think this is really the moment,” Jim said, even though the whole point was that they hadn’t really had a moment until now.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I disagree,” he said curtly, calling Jim’s bullshit. “And in my estimation it is particularly important that we discuss what you said 7.41 seconds before our crash landing.” 

Jim scowled. _That_ he did remember. “Fine, fine, you don’t hate me. You’re just apathetic towards me in a very aggressive way,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Spock didn’t respond immediately, and Jim felt a thrill of vindictive righteousness shoot through him.

_There, you can’t deny it. I haven’t been making it up._

“4.54 days ago, I spoke with Dr. McCoy,” Spock began and Jim had no idea where he was going with this. “And he informed me that our relationship is causing you distress.”

 _That two-timing bastard,_ Jim thought. Had Bones given Spock a lecture? Was _that_ why Spock had come to his quarters the other day? 

A still more discomfiting thought dawned on Jim. Did that mean this, right now, was Spock trying to be _nice?_

Jeez, he hoped not. If so, Jim would much rather have him go back to being a jerk.

“Further,” Spock continued, “I gather that you have had difficulty sleeping and have lost weigh—”

“Jesus Christ, okay, that’s enough,” Jim said loudly, feeling his face flame. Fuck it, so _that’s_ why Spock thought he could ask about Jim’s eating habits, goddamn melding doctors. “Bones was _way_ out of line and that’s _none_ of your business.” 

Fucking idiot that he was, Spock’s set his jaw, his sallow face ugly and severe. The bruise on his forehead had darkened into brown, and he clearly wasn’t getting the message that Jim did _not_ want to talk about this. 

“You are being illogical. Whether or not he should have made the disclosure is irrelevant as he did so,” Spock said. “Unintentional or otherwise, it was done out of a concern for your wellbeing, a concern which I share.”

_Like hell you do._

“I _said,_ butt out,” Jim said through gritted teeth. Did Spock think he was doing it on purpose? For attention? 

“Captain," Spock said sharply, "you cannot continue to ignore—”

“Stop telling me what to do!” Jim yelled, slapping his hands onto his knees, kicking one of the pieces of wood at the edge of the fire and making it spark and jump, so fucking mad. “And stop pretending like you care about me—you don’t care about _anyone!”_

 _That_ had been too close to what Jim’d said on the bridge— _You feel nothing! It must not even compute for you. You never loved her!_ —and Spock’s eyes flashed.

Eyes widening, Jim tensed for the blow, for a moment feeling the phantom grip of Spock’s hands on his throat, a strength that he was powerless to defend against and no one else here in this barn to stop Spock if he really wanted to hurt Jim. 

“You are afraid of me,” Spock said in a monotone after a moment, stormy eyes had gone almost normal again.

“I am _not,”_ Jim said, strangely disappointed and angry at himself for being so. His ankle was still throbbing from the kick, cut stinging like he’d pulled it open. _Dipshit._ “Look, this is a crap situation and this conversation isn’t helping, _”_ he spat. “Let’s just wait and cross our fingers that the Enterprise comes so we don’t have to look at each other any more.”

“The _Enterprise_ will not come,” Spock said flatly. (And Jim had known that all along, but it was like swallowing a stone to hear it said out loud). “And attempting to delude yourself into believing otherwise is illogical,” Spock continued. “The window of opportunity for our rescue has closed and the probability that we will be located is now less than 4%. We are now trapped on this planet for the foreseeable future and I believe it will be expedient for us to be functioning optimally in the very likely circumstance that difficulties will arise, and if you are emotionally compromised this will be more difficult.“

Outrage seared the inside of Jim’s body— _he_ was the one who was emotionally compromised now? 

But he swallowed it all. That wasn’t going to help right now.

“Fine, yes, you’re right. Whatever you want. Happy now?” 

Something shifted behind Spock’s eyes, but Jim had no fucking idea what and before he could figure it out, the emotion was gone, collapsing like Spock had crunched it up into a paper ball. 

“You saved my life,” Spock said out of nowhere.

“What?” Jim asked, confused. This conversation was giving him whiplash. Where was all of this coming from all of a sudden? This was why he had no idea what to do around Spock—the guy was obviously batshit.

Spock cocked his head to the side. “I was incapacitated by the crash. You swam us both to shore," he said matter-of-factly. "If you had not acted as you did, I would have died.”

“Oh that,” Jim said, feeling weirdly embarrassed. This conversation had gone from surreal to totally off the fucking wall. He wanted to say, _‘Yeah, but I didn’t do it for you,’_ but he sort of had, so he just shrugged and muttered “I wouldn’t just let you _die."_

Did Spock really think he'd do that? Jesus. Jim would do a lot to stay alive, but he was pretty sure he wasn't a _psychopath_.

...even if the darkest, evilest part of his mind whispered that if Spock just— _wasn’t around anymore—_ Jim wouldn’t have to worry so much about losing his job.

Silence followed Jim's words, and he pushed the twisted thought away. _God,_ why was he like this? He didn’t even have the excuse that his mom hadn’t hugged him enough as a kid, because well, she had. She'd been great with hugs.

Jim went back to looking at the fire, pretending to ignore Spock. But his mind kept twisting, the heavy silence filling up with all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. With the paranoid sense that Spock somehow knew what he'd been thinking just now and was judging him for it. Judging _him_.

Unable to sit still with all of that pressing down on him, Jim picked himself up. His muscles had stiffened while he sat, and he wondered vaguely if he’d hurt less if he hadn’t been too busy to go to the gym the past couple of weeks.

Despite his slow movements, all the blood rushed to Jim’s head when he stood. Spots to danced before his eyes and he turned away from Spock, trying not to sway woozily. 

_Low-blood sugar_ , he thought as the pixel-static cleared and he began not-hobbling to the barn door. 

But when he opened it, he forgot everything else.

“Holy shit,” he heard himself say. 

Outside, flood waters rushed by below covering the whole valley in a torrential inland sea except where hills like theirs rose out of it like tiny, fragile islands. The sky had darkened, blue and yawning black. It was biblical—like that old _parashah_ about Noah’s arc, or the story they'd learned about in schooll—about a lake that could swallow cities. 

This thought made him nervous. The rain was still coming down hard and they’d be in big trouble if the water level rose. 

Hopefully, whoever had built the barn had thought it’s placement through, since he didn’t think surviving _that_ would be as easy as bailing from the shuttle had been.

Despite the fact that he was getting lashed with rain, the huge movement of water and sky were too transfixing to look away from and a moment later, Jim felt rather than heard Spock join him, standing half a foot back at the opposite side of the doorway. 

They were standing no more than four feet away, and for a moment Jim felt like they were strangely in tune, equalized by the raging dark around them.

But then Jim shifted and the moment broke, a trick of his imagination.

 _Good thing we didn’t stay by the lake_ , Jim thought, moving back into the barn. Behind him, Spock could slid the doors shut again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief mention of weight loss, mention of past smoking
> 
> Gentle readers, thank you for your lovely comments, they make me feel like 💛😳😊 Also, @spriteofwinter made some [amazing Spock fanart](https://spriteofwinter.tumblr.com/post/190452245293/as-far-as-i-can-tell-this-is-how-spock-is-dealing). I can’t confirm or deny the accuracy of the interpretation, but it’s hilarious: 
> 
>   
> _Text from original post:_  
>  As far as I can tell, this is how Spock is dealing with the adonic Jim in [@wingittofreedom](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard)’s “The Sparrow People.” Who, me? Gay and capable of noticing your beauty? I don’t even have eyes, so–and Vulcans wouldn’t care anyway–and. Yeah.
> 
> Re: ditching a sinking vehicle. Jim does everything right: waiting for the water to rise, swimming on his back arms looped through Spock's—so if you are ever in a similar situation, follow Starfleet protocol.


	4. The Sparrow People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, the titular chapter. My body is ready.” —[summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock), my wonderful beta  
> Warnings in endnotes

Now that they were both dry and not under imminent threat of death, Jim wanted to sleep. And Spock—fuck, the guy’d had a concussion— _had_ to sleep, no matter what Vulcan bullshit was keeping him on his feet.

They didn't have any blankets, but Jim was hoping there’d be some hay or straw in the loft to make up for it. 

There was no ladder, but luckily the barn walls were lined with horizontal cross beams Jim could climb. His ankle made him less nimble than he normally would’ve been, but it was worth it because when he reached the top, the loft was full of clean smelling hay. 

It had to be midnight by now, ship’s time, but when Jim glanced down at his wrist out of habit, the clock face was stuck unhelpfully on ‘5:05.’ It must've broken in the lake. Spock could probably tell him the exact time down to the second, but Jim didn’t want to bother asking. 

“Hey,” Jim said, poking his face out over the ledge. “There’s a bunch of hay up here and we should both sleep. And I think we’ll be okay without a setting up a watch in this weather.”

“Yes, Captain,” Spock said. 

Both of them had taken off their overshirts to dry, and Jim clambered down to retrieve his while Spock put out the fire, which had burned low.

Once the it was out, Jim climbed slowly back up to the loft. Somewhere behind and below him, he heard Spock sneeze.

Without the fire, the barn was drafty and cold. His own breath was just visible in the darkness and Jim thought uncomfortably about Starfleet president for sharing body heat under life threatening circumstances. Although the sky outside had turned murky, Jim was sure they hadn’t reached the coldest part of the night, and Spock was still sneezing. Yes, they were reasonably dry now, but the water had probably lowered their body temperatures into hypothermia danger zones and he wasn’t sure how that would affect him—let alone a Vulcan—all of which were strong reasons to share body heat. 

But on the other hand.

Jim decided flat out that unless he saw a fucking _icicle_ , he wasn’t going to suggest they get that close.

Now that he wasn't moving, Jim could hear water dripping through invisible leaks in the barn. Luckily, dampness hadn’t affected the hay, which smelled sharp and tannic. A lot like it had in Iowa, actually. A good smell. One that convinced Jim that this barn was still in use, or had been so up until recently—leaving him unsure whether that was comforting or spooky.

He heard a quiet sneeze and he turned his head to see Spock, a dim shape sitting on the edge of the platform.

Ignoring him, Jim found himself a spot in a far corner, re-checking the hay for dampness before worming his way under a pile of it, the familiar, clean smell all around him.

Curled up in his corner, the hay around him mostly blocked his view. But from the silence, he knew Spock hadn’t moved from the far edge.

“We’ll be fine,” Jim said, maybe feeling a little guilty for not offering to share.

Spock didn’t respond and Jim closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the barn creaking in the howling wind and rain, hoping that the entire place wouldn’t get ripped off into the sky like the house from _The Wizard of Oz_. 

He didn’t think he could stand that just now.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Crusty eyed and grouchy with hunger, Jim woke to narrow beams of light crisscrossing the barn and the awareness that they were no longer alone.

Staying completely still, Jim listened to the sounds of scratching coming from below. Claws? He was glad that they were high up enough that they couldn’t be seen from the barn floor.

He sat up slowly. Glancing over at Spock, Jim saw that he was still asleep, covered in straw. Quietly, Jim stole across the platform to peer through a gap in the boards, trying to get a look at their guest.

The angle was wrong, so all he could make out was a wide, two-legged shape. Alone. That'd be good if things went pear-shaped, though he was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

Crawling as silently as he could over to his still-sleeping first officer, Jim put his hand over Spock’s mouth. 

_Wake up. It’s me, Jim,’_ he thought as loudly as he could, hoping that Vulcan telepathy worked that way.

Apparently it did, because Spock’s eyes flew open instantly, wide and startled. Jim brought a finger to his own lips and then carefully took his hand away.

Momentarily open face, already shuttered, Spock nodded, sitting up very slowly.

Jim pointed at himself then at the ground, mouthing _'I’ll go.'_ Next he pointed at Spock, then at the platform they were on. _'Stay here and cover me.'_

Spock shook his head.

Scowling, Jim repeated gesture, and again received the same response.

 _Whatever,_ Jim thought, rolling his eyes. Silently, he made his way to the edge of the platform. He wasn’t sure what the best way to do this was, but in all of his classes on first contact, certain rules had been emphasized. No aggressive movements, broadcast all actions before you do them, and don't do anything surprising.

Even knowing as he did that this section of the galaxy was fully explored, with no more opportunities species-wide first contact, Jim knew that the rules were a good idea. Whatever individual he was about to meet might never have met an alien. 

With this in mind, Jim started down the wall to say hello.

Unfortunately, Jim’s ankle had other ideas, playing a last dirty trick and giving out under him just as he’d begun to climb.

Yelping, Jim hit the ground with a thud.

Starting, the visitor turned swiftly and Jim found himself looking up into round, wide-set black eyes.

“Um, hi,” Jim said, doing a mental face-palm as the creature burst into unintelligible twittering, clucking noises. 

Whatever it was, it was clearly avian: clawed, four-toed bird feet, a round body with a sharp nose and a bird-like tongue visible when it opened its mouth; no wings, but its head and arms befeathered in soft olive-green plumage. 

It looked a bit like large sparrow—if sparrows dressed in wide wale corduroy and collared shirts.

Recovering himself, Jim tried again, pushing himself slowly to his feet, holding both hands up, palms forward in a universally placating gesture. 

“Hello. My name is Captain James T. Kirk. I come in peace as a representative of Starfleet,” he said, feeling like one of those silly characters from 21st century movies. He might as well have gone with _‘take me to your leader.’_

Quieting, the sparrow-person cocked its head to the side in a very bird-like way and Jim wondered if they were going to be at an impasse.

But then:

“Oh, Standard-speakers,” they said in heavily accented, warbling voice. 

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s right. I’m guessing this is your barn?” 

The alien made a musical chirping noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Yes,” they said. “I saw your smoke before the flood-storm, but the waters were not calmed enough for rowing-boats until now. Are you visiting from somewhere? Oh, there are two of you,” they said, looking over Jim’s shoulder.

Jim cleared his throat, aware that Spock was behind him now, probably silently judging him for his less-than-smooth introduction.

“This is Commander Spock. And yes, well, we crashed actually. We didn’t know if anyone owned the barn, but we wanted to avoid the rain—sorry, but what’s your name?” Jim asked, feeling awkward but also relieved that the alien seemed friendly enough. Well, _had_ seemed friendly enough. The expression on their face had gone odd, as they looked between him and Spock. Jim prepared himself for the interaction to turn sour.

But the expression disappeared quickly. “My name is Eztl,” they said cheerfully. “And that is good. No one is wishing to be outside when the rains fall. Come,” the bird—Eztl said, turning towards the door. “You said your name was Captain?” they called over their shoulder.

“Uh, no, that’s just what I am. My name’s Jim,” Jim said, following Eztl out into the sunshine. Glinting off the water, it was so bright it made him blink.

Once his eyes adjusted, Jim could see that the valley had been totally transformed by the storm. It was still flooded, but instead of raging like the night before, the waters were calm, broken only by the tops of distant hills and trees. 

When he looked around for Eztl, he saw that they’d had gotten into a small, birchbark boat.

“Come!” Eztl called, hefting a long wooden paddle.

Jim glanced at Spock, silently willing him to play bad cop. Eztl seemed friendly, but it he wasn’t about to just get into a stranger’s boat on a strange planet, no matter how nice that person was without at least knowing where they were going.

Catching the look, Spock nodded and stepped forward. “You have our thanks for your generosity. Will you please inform us where you wish to take us?”

Sometimes Jim wondered if Spock talked like that just to make him feel stupid by comparison.

“To my village, Xochuil _,"_ Eztl called back. "You can see the rowing-boats."

Following Eztl’s pointing, Jim could see that yes—difficult to see because of the glinting water—there were several boats moving around on the water’s surface, the size of walnut shells at this distance.

“Alright,” Jim said, nodding at Spock. Jim’s gut was saying Eztl didn’t mean them any harm—and besides it wasn’t like they had any better options. And honestly if they weren’t about to be fucking sacrificed to whatever corn god these people worshipped, this could be a huge stroke of luck Jim knew. _Especially_ if they had any kind of communications technology. 

Once Jim and Spock were seated in the boat, Eztl unmoored it and pushed off, standing in the stern and using muscular arms to paddle. As the boat slid forward, Jim could feel the bones in his ass pressing uncomfortably against the wood plank.

“What did you crash?” Eztl asked conversationally as the boat brushed against the arm of a willowy tree, submerged like a mangrove.

“A space shuttle,” Spock responded. 

_“Oh,” Eztl_ breathed, black eyes going even rounder. “You come from space then.”

“That’s where we work,” Jim said quickly. “Eztl, on this planet, do you have space flight?”

“Oh yes,” Eztl nodded. “Not here though. Over the mountains is a city, and they have skyships there.”

“And, you don’t happen to know how we could get to that city do you?”

“No,” Eztl said, looking thoughtful. “But there may be a way. I will take you to someone who will be knowing for sure. From space! No one has ever seen a space-person before—everyone will be so,” here Eztl paused as though searching for a word, “ _happy_ to look at you!”

As they sailed forward, the boat had to nudge aside more and more floating vegetation to make its way through the deep green water: broken branches and bobbing fruits that must’ve been knocked down in the storm. It probably would’ve been a peaceful ride under other circumstances—if Jim hadn’t been painfully hungry and chilled, on edge about where they were going and trying to make his brain focus on picking out which questions were the most important to ask first. 

_And_ if he didn't keep noticing Eztl giving them odd looks every so often.

Not sure how to interpret those, Jim decided there was nothing he could do about it for now. Instead he asked “Where did you learn Standard?"

He figured that whoever had done the teaching would likely be the best person to ask how to get out of here.

If nothing else, it was important to establish a rapport. It was a bit harder to sacrifice someone you had a rapport with.

“Oh, missionaries," Eztl said. " _Ylvites._ From the cities." Jim's heart rose at the mention of cities. "They are coming here sometimes. There are none in Xochuil now, but they made a speaking-school. A long time ago many of us were learning Standard there, but we teach ourselves now—which is better. Ylvites are—” Eztl broke off, making a funny face. "They think complicated thoughts.”

“Does this valley often flood in this manner?” Spock asked before Jim could think of another question.

“Oh yes, one time in a month. Water is how we grow the red-grain,” Eztl explained. “This is why all home-houses are in the high places.”

Despite having a simple vocabulary in Standard, Eztl was open and talkative, and with a little prompting, they spent the rest of the ride explaining about the village and the valley—crop cycles, weather patterns and the like. Spock was annoyingly attentive—Jim was so glad they'd never had classes together—while Jim’s brain ignored most of what he was told as he focused on trying to pick up on anything that could be important. There was less of that than he’d hoped.

One thing that Jim noted was that Eztl seemed to have little concept of species. When Jim’d tried to ask, Eztl had seemed confused by the question, just calling those who lived here ‘The People,’ which seemed to be the best translation Eztl could give for the clicking chirp elicited by Jim’s question. 

Having grown up in a small town himself, Jim wasn’t as surprised by this insular mindset as he might’ve been. Everyone in Riverside had believed the whole rest of the world thought just like they did, and were always surprised and incredulous when presented with evidence to the contrary—Jim’s mom being a prime example of such evidence.

He remembered the way people had reacted whenever she’d gone on one of her whims and done something weird—like paint the house daffodil yellow (but only half of it), or fill the yard with way too many Halloween decorations (when it wasn’t even October). It’d been funny as hell to watch neighbors pretend they weren’t surrounded by fake webs and cardboard ghouls whenever they had to come over. Sam had always been so embarrassed, but Jim had liked that stuff. It’d meant she was home instead of out working one of her ever-changing jobs or out-out with one of her ever-changing boyfriends.

After about ten minutes, they drew nearer to the close set grouping of hills the little boats were zipping around. Atop the hills were clusters of houses and buildings reminding Jim of images he’d seen of old shtetls, and about them moved several white flocks—some kind of herding animal? 

As they approached, distinct figures soon became clear in the little boats, and Jim could see that they were being rowed by more people who looked like Eztl, their faces and bodies an odd mixture of humanoid and avian features—only, with feathers in different colors and shades. Some were olive-green like Eztl, while others were smaller and flaxen-brown, and others still were closer to white, making Jim suspect that the coloring meant something for the species. Sexual dimorphism maybe? Race? He couldn’t be sure.

Several of the boaters were already peering at them, and Eztl waved them over, calling a greeting in the unknown, twittering language.

A minute later their boat was bumping into several others as they were surrounded by what looked like a flock of sparrows, bobbing their heads and craning their necks to get a better look. Barn coats and wooden sandals, feathers, flushed noses and children peeking out from colorful wraps that reminded Jim of Peruvian _mantas_. Some wore furry hats with ear-flaps which made their heads look even rounder and fluffier.

“These are Jim and Spock. They are from space,” Eztl said somewhat proudly and Jim nodded politely as many sets of black eyes blinked back at him, round with curiosity. 

_Not just curiosity though_ , Jim decided with a twinge of unease. Several of their onlookers were eyeing him and Spock with the same expression Eztl had worn. _Suspicion_ , Jim realized at once, now that he saw deeper examples of it.

One of the sparrow-people—a robust, tawny bird in a pinafore—twittered out a brief burst in the bird-language Eztl had used earlier, glancing at them sharply before looking back at Eztl.

Looking a trifle sheepish, Eztl replied in the bird-language, pointing back the way they had come.

From the gesture, Jim felt sure that Eztl had just explained about finding them in the barn, but their answer was greeted by silence and a rustling of feathers. Something was definitely off, and Jim just wished he knew what so he could try to do damage control.

“They are weird-looking and have no feathers. Mom, why don’t they have feathers?” a child-sized sparrow whispered loudly to a muscular bird with a matronly bearing. The child’s accent was the same as Eztl’s—clipped consonants and long vowels, and both mother and child had flaxen-brown feathers—a color Jim was beginning to suspect meant _‘female.’_

“Hebe, rudeness,” the mother chirped back in throaty Standard before turning to Jim. Sympathy was clear, even in her alien features. “Apologies. Her manners are incorrect, I am thinking you are pretty,” she said to Jim. “And your husband as well,” she said, looking between him and Spock. 

_Oh._

Several things clicked in Jim’s head, rapid-fire and quicker than his rational brain had time to process.

“We are n—” Spock began.

“Thank you,” Jim said, smiling and grinding his heal into Spock’s foot. “It’s so nice to be here. My husband and I,” he said, putting a firm hand on Spock’s shoulder, “think your valley is very beautiful.”

“You are looking like rough-water is bringing you,” said the mother, surveying them. Her syntax was unorthodox but her eyes were intelligent and kind, concerned as they flicked between the bruise on Spock's forehead and Jim’s bound up calf. “You are hurting?”

“They crashed in the lake,” Eztl said excitedly. This produced renewed twittering from their audience, whose suspicion Jim noticed, seemed to have lessened. Good. He’d said the right thing.

“Eztl, let her speak,” the mother said, and it took Jim a second to realize she meant _him_. “Crashing hurts.”

“That’s fine,” Jim smiled, ignoring how tense Spock’s shoulder was under his hand. “We got a little dinged up—ah, hurt—but we’re fine, thank you...” he trailed off, not knowing her name.

“Iska,” she said encouragingly. “You must be tired and wanting food. Come with me and we will find you some clothes and foods?” 

Wow, Jim loved moms.

It _almost_ made him feel guilty for taking advantage of her, since she obviously thought he and Spock were a couple. But Jim had plenty of reasons for not correcting her. 

He’d deal with Spock later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: misgendering (species related misunderstanding, unrelated to transphobia)
> 
> Thank you to [@nacluvetitep](https://nacluvetitep.tumblr.com/post/190751650387/heres-a-little-picture-of-what-i-thought-the) for the cute (and just the right amount of unsettling) drawing of Eztl. And to [@ljza](https://ljza.tumblr.com)! For the adorable sparrow person drawing of Iska. Please check Liz out on tumblr to see more cute art :)


	5. Sour Grapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for betaing.  
> Warnings in endnotes

Jim really hadn’t thought this through.

But it was too late to change his mind, he realized, looking at the single, narrow bed in the room Iska had shown them to.

About half an hour ago Eztl had waved goodbye as Jim and Spock had transferred to Iska’s boat. From there they’d been paddled off to one of the larger hills, where Iska secured her boat at a short wooden dock.

At its top, the hill accommodated several buildings. Paddocks, silos and cottages arranged in no discernable order, most with hydro-tanks jerry-rigged on top and all connected by laundry lines which stretched between structures, filled with clothing that fluttered in the breeze. Cobbled together and mismatched as they were, Jim half-wondered how they’d withstood the winds from the night before.

Through this tangle of overgrown grass and miscellaneous odds and ends, Iska had led them to her house. Bordered by a kitchen-garden fenced in by chicken wire, the yard was crowded with what looked like yellow poppiesand squash flowers.

Inside it smelled damp. Jim had taken in creaking puncheon floors, a corrugated roof and a few bluish windows paned with thick, nearly opaque glass. Several small stones carved with what looked like faces were propped against the sills, the room's furniture made out of sturdy wood with brightly colored crewelwork coverings. 

Jim had tried not to be disheartened by the simplicity of their surroundings. By the lack of electricity and comm technology.

This was better than nothing, he reminded himself, and with any luck, they’d be out of here soon.

Once she’d got them inside, Iska had immediately sat Jim down in a chair to deal with his leg, which she’d cooed and clucked over as she applied an herbal antiseptic and re-wrapped it with new bandages, telling him how tough he was, informing a very stiff Spock what a lucky husband he was while Jim kept an incredibly straight face. 

_Man_ , Jim loved moms.

What he did _not_ love was the prospect of sharing a bed with Spock.

The idea of sharing a _bed_ with another person was bad enough—Jim was used to sleeping alone, and besides which, unless you’d just fucked, _sleeping_ next to another person was way too intimate for Jim’s comfort. 

But having to share with _Spock_ made it so much worse. Not only did Spock hate his guts, but over the course of their five months of serving together, Jim had said a number of increasingly sexual things to Spock, viciously hoping to make him uncomfortable. 

Now that they were faced with the prospect of sharing a bed, Jim sort of felt like those things were biting him in the ass.

There’d been one particular moment, in a turbolift after shift, that Jim wasn’t proud of.

It’d been the day after Jim’s mom had called him, crying and saying that she’d been dumped again. Spock couldn’t have known that, but each of his jabbing little criticisms had made Jim’s mood worse ( _“I’m sorry for calling like this, I didn’t mean to cry. You know how proud I am of you, right? I love you—how are you doing?” “It’s okay Mom, I’m glad you called. I love you too, I’m doing really well.”_ ) 

Despite Spock's niggling, Jim had stayed calm and polite all day, just _taking it—_ until they’d gotten into the turbolift together. Spock had said something cutting about Jim’s reports, (he didn’t remember what) and Jim had had _enough._ Just because Spock was holier-than-thou didn't mean he had the right to talk to Jim like that or look at him like he was gum on his shoe.

So Jim had smiled at Spock, rubbed a thumb thoughtfully over his lips and said in a pleasant voice “I’ve been wondering Commander, other than paperwork, what _does_ it for you?” Jim had raised his eyebrows, still smiling. “We both know how much you liked strangling me, but I want to know—is it the asphyxiation itself that gets you off? Or knowing the other person doesn’t _want_ you to choke them?”

Jim had thought for a moment of vicious satisfaction that it’d worked—that this would be the time he got Spock to snap. But all that he’d done was give Jim a disgusted look before hitting the button for the next floor, stalking out seconds later.

That had been about three weeks ago, and Spock hadn't gotten in a turbolift alone with him after that.

At the time it’d felt like a victory. But the high, like the highs from being cruel always did, had bittered quickly, making his stomach sour and filling him with the knowledge that he should probably apologize, and that _maybe_ if he did—

But Jim never had.

He supposed _this_ was comeuppance for not having done so. 

“Oh, and you will be wanting cleanness,” Iska chirped brightly from behind him. “We have a spout outside, but the—” Iska paused. “I am not knowing the word, but a part of it is broken so do not drink. There are showers—but they are broken also.” There was a note of apologetic embarrassment in her voice that Jim recognized and empathized with on a visceral level, even as his brain seized on the opportunity to turn this into a transaction.

“No worries,” he said, smiling. “Honestly we're just glad to be here. My husband and I are lucky we weren’t washed away in the flood, so we’re grateful for anything,” he said easily, despite practically being able to _feel_ the displeasure radiating from Spock at the lies. “And if you’ve got any tools, I might be able to fix whatever’s broken,” he added, keeping his eyes on Iska and hoping she wouldn’t notice Spock’s towering disapproval.

“Oh! You are a builder? But do not worry about any fixing, you are tired,” she said gesturing him forward. “A minute and I will get clothes and soap. Follow me.”

Bustling off with two Starfleet officers in tow, Iska led them around the house, chirping about this and that—so bright and cheerful that she forcibly reminded Jim of his own mother, only much more self-possessed and calm. 

“I am keeping some clothes from my oldest daughter, Io. I think you will fit,” she said, sizing Jim up with intelligent mom-eyes. 

Turning to a cupboard, she put several items into a basket before leading them outside. Jim didn’t have time to note anything besides color, so he crossed his fingers and hoped to hell that no skirts would be involved.

“And there are many shirts,” she was saying to Spock as she led them outside, pulling clothes down from a clothesline that extended towards a silo, loading her armful of fabric into the basket before handing it to Jim.

“Thanks,” Jim said, accepting it with mingled trepidation and gratitude.

She shook her head, pleased. “I will get you foods while you wash,” she said, setting a bar of soap on top of the pile, which was the nicest way Jim had ever heard someone say ‘you're dirty, please clean yourself.’ 

“Thank you,” he said again, but she waved him off and bustled back into the house.

Wasting no time himself, Jim ducked under a shirt, weaving away from Spock through the lines. He knew they were going to have it out, but he was stubbornly determined to avoid a confrontation for as long as he could. Honestly, two in less than twenty four hours was way too fucking many, especially after months of freeze out.

Also he was so hungry his stomach felt like it was eating itself and that was _not_ making things better.

Back behind the house, there was a pump like Iska had said. Jim set the clothes basket down on a cinder block and started unzipping his stupid, bedraggled uniform.

He'd never been shirtless in front of Spock before, and Jim ignored the electric jolt of hyperawareness he felt. Honestly, he told himself, Spock was such a prude, showing some skin around him probably counted as a good deed.

“Captain,” Spock said sharply from behind him.

“What?” Jim asked, half way out of his shirt, not turning around but not stopping either. 

“Lying is unethical.”

Jim rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. “Do you think I care?” 

_Lying is unethical._ Jesus. Jim had the mornonic urge to parrot that back in high voice like an elementary school kid. What utter bullshit. ‘Necessary’ was the only thing that mattered, and ‘unethical?’ What did that even mean? 'Good' and 'bad' were just two lists in the rotten brain of an madman; another excuse for people to be dicks to each other. 'Lying’ wasn’t wrong, just _necessary,_ and only priggish people who didn’t know better—or who wanted to feel self-righteous and garden-party appalled insisted otherwise. 

Speaking of self-righteous and priggish.

“Deceit is a reprehensible violation of trust and I have no desire to participate in this falsehood,” Spock said in a pinched voice. “Vulcans do not lie.”

 _Good for them,_ Jim thought. _But_ everyone _else does, which means you've got to lie better than they do._

Trying to keep his cool under this ridiculous assault, Jim kept his back turned to Spock as he pulled his ruined shirt the rest of the way off. He started working the handle of the pump, trying to relax the rigid set of his shoulders but not quite able to. Why was Spock making such a big deal out of this? _He_ wasn’t the one the bird people thought was a woman. 

Was Spock homophobic after all?—and the idea of being pretend-married to a guy disgusted him?

More likely, it was simply because Spock didn’t like _Jim_. 

“Look,” he began. He was going for placating and he smiled reassuringly over his shoulder; it was one of his best angles. “I don’t know about you, but I saw their faces when they looked at us. Eztl too—he was giving us weird looks the whole way back.” Leaning down, Jim splashed water onto his face. He winced. It was cold. “Didn’t you notice?”

“That does not justify your lie,” Spock said. “And I refuse to aid you unless you provide me with a logical explanation.”

At this, something cold and hard scraped inside of Jim and straightened, turning and glaring up at Spock, whose face looked unusually ugly in the bright sunlight. “I’m the Captain,” he snapped. “That means until I’m relieved of duty I don’t have to explain shit to you.”

Now it was Spock’s turn to glare, an expression that on him was a slight furrowing of his stupid-idiot eyebrows. “If you do not explain yourself, I will inform them of their mistake.”

Jim crossed his arms to bury his shock. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said. Spock was bluffing.

“I assure you I will,” Spock said. “As I have already informed you, Vulcans do not lie.”

_Fuck._

Turning around again, Jim grabbed the soap bar, lathering up his hands. _Damnit,_ Spock meant it. He wouldn’t have believed it except that precedent said otherwise.

“Fine,” he said, crouching in front of the pump. “They’re like birds on Earth right?—Sexual dimorphism." (Jim had a good guess the little white ones were old folks). "And they obviously think we’re like them."

He was stalling. While he’d been acting mostly on intuition in the moment, he’d worked out the details of _why_ on the way over, but that didn’t mean Jim wanted to explain. 

“I am aware,” Spock said. “You more closely resemble the females of this species, while my coloring is more similar to the males, who are an average of 2.4 inches taller.” 

“Right,” Jim said, jaw tightening. “And the people in rural areas tend to be stricter about gender roles and certain...mores.”

“What is your meaning?” Spock asked, sounding impatient.

Jim clenched his jaw again, worrying the soap and mulling over how to say what needed to be said. There was probably no way to say it that would make Spock happy.

“Eztl found us in a _barn,_ with our _hair full of straw,”_ he tried, hoping Spock would get it.

Spock stayed silent, obviously not getting it.

 _Of all the obtuse—_ “Jesus Christ do I have to spell it out for you? They think we’re fucking.” Jim’s voice was too loud and he shifted tones, speaking more quietly. “I’m from a small town and I know how this stuff works. Right now, I can guarantee you that everybody and their dog already knows the whole story—even the parts that didn’t happen.” Jim finally set down the soap, starting to scrub himself viciously with his hands while he pretended Spock wasn’t there and this conversation wasn’t awkward as fuck. 

“There are planets,” _like Tarsus IV,_ “where you can get killed for having premarital sex, or gay sex,” he continued, pumping more water into his hands. “And besides, which story do you think plays better? The one where we’re outsiders with _threatening sexual ways?”_ He splashed himself in the face, washing away the soap. “Or the version where we’re a nice married couple? One of them is a hell of a lot more sympathetic, and the bottom line is we _need_ them to like us if we ever want to get out of here.”

There was a long, tense pause as Jim continued washing, knees getting wet in a puddle of runoff. When he glanced behind him he saw that Spock was turned away, not looking at him.

“I still do not believe it was strictly necessary,” Spock said after a moment. He sounded like he’d swallowed a lemon. “However I agree that it was the more expedient option.” 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Jim stooped to dig through Iska’s basket for a shirt. God, it felt good to be clean.

Finishing washing up was awkward—Jim took the ruined bottom half of his clothes off while Spock faced away and when Jim was done changing, he got out of there as quick as he could, leaving Spock with the soap and the remaining clothes before going to join Iska in the kitchen to see if he could help.

The clothes he’d been given were all sturdy and handmade, and Jim was relieved to find that they were relatively gender neutral by Earth standards: a rough, long-sleeved button-front blouse, sleeveless linen undershirt, loose herringbone trousers that buttoned at the waist, wool stockings, and a linen undergarment that looked suspiciously like _bloomers._

Ignoring how loose and ill-fitting everything was, Jim reflected that at least the layers were warm as he made his way into the kitchen.

Now all he needed to do was figure out how to get from here to the city behind the mountains that Eztl had mentioned and he’d be all set. Yeah. Fucking _peachy_.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

“You are lucky to have coming so soon after a rainstorm,” Iska said, hauling a big copper boiler into the middle of the yard. “In the dry months, we must bring water from the river.” 

Looking in the direction she pointed in, Jim could make out a line of trees which he assumed marked the place where the river he and Spock had followed yesterday usually ran. It was at least a mile away.

 _Good god_ , Jim thought. 

Then, _Good god,_ _I sound like Bones_. 

Then, _Fuck._

After they’d changed, Jim had found Iska in the kitchen, a room full of brightly colored vegetables and fruits bits, a pot of bubbling water, and herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling. And an Iska who was humming away as she poured a dark purple drink into pewter cups. 

“It is _sot_ ,” Iska had said, setting down the steaming cups on the table and reaching for a loaf of bread and a bowl of oil. “We make it from the red-grain.”

She’d broken the bread into big pieces, sitting down to eat with them. 

After Jim’d gotten Spock—with much difficulty and eyebrow raising—to surreptitiously check out the food with his tricorder, eating had been hard and uncomfortable despite his empty stomach. Too aware of the motions of his mouth and throat, Jim had thought the— _sot,_ Iska had called it—was warm and filling but too sweet, and he was so hungry that the bread had hurt when he’d swallowed.

Spock had eaten too. Which was weird to see. 

And weirder still to see him in sparrow-person clothes. His were the same as Jim’s, but his shirt was blue instead of brown, and his shirt didn’t have orange flowers embroidered on the collar either, but Jim chose to ignore that part. _And_ he had suspenders. _Suspenders_. _Sheesh._

Once they’d eaten some, Iska had poured them tea, filling the room with a sharp, herbal smell.

Gosh, mom’s and their tea. It was a thing on every planet apparently. Jim didn’t even _like_ tea, but it was warm, and besides, he loved being mommed. Any excuse for attention and pampering. 

When Iska had asked her eventual questions—how had they crashed? How long had they been married? How had they met?—Jim was expecting them, and had answers ready that didn’t give anything away.

Smiling, Jim had spun a few easy lies and half-truths— _our engine had broke, five months, he was a teacher at my school_. 

Spock had stayed silent the whole time Jim spoke, but thankfully he hadn’t contradicted anything. That was all that mattered right now.

Soon after that Jim had asked what needed doing. He was no stranger to boarding at someone’s house in exchange for service. He’d done it all the time before Starfleet—and no, service did not mean _that,_ thanks for assuming.

Iska had protested (“No, you must rest!”), but Jim had gently insisted, and eventually Iska had accepted gratefully. According to her, there was always more than enough work to go around, and apparently today was laundry day.

Hence the copper boiler.

Stooping, Iska went about lighting a fire underneath it with swift, practiced hands. Jim and Spock, at her instruction, filled it with water from the pump which they lugged over in buckets, Jim curious about how this would happen despite himself.

Once the water was set to heating, Jim and Iska went back into the house for bags of laundry and soap flakes from the kitchen while Spock was left to watch the boiler.

As they were heading back outside, balancing their precarious loads, a shriek sounded from behind them. 

Tensing automatically, Jim dropped his laundry sack, turning in time to see a tiny, fluffy ball whizzed past at full tilt, golden-brown and still shrieking as it went, followed lickity-split by a second, green one, then a third, with the rear brought up by a _very_ small green one, who stopped half-way through its path to stare, wide-eyed at Jim before darting away after the others.

“Luzdj, Margit, Hebe you have seen, and Ixo,” Iska listed, frazzled. “One moment, let me—”

“Please,” Jim said, gesturing for her to go after them before picking up the bag he’d dropped.

Nodding gratefully, Iska hurried off, leaving her sacks and the box of soap flakes behind. 

Compared to what Jim was used to, all of this was practically medieval. He’d dealt with antiquated technology before—on Tarsus everything had been at least thirty years out of date—but he’d never washed clothes without a laundry machine. Thank god Bones wasn’t here to laugh, he thought as he hauled the sacks outside.

 _Bloomers,_ honestly.

Still imagining what Bones would think of all this, Jim made his way to the copper boiler. Iska hadn't given him any instructions and he wasn't entirely sure what to do, but a quick glance at Spock told him he was going to get no help from that quarter.

Jim looked back at the water. Steam rose from it expectantly, and he reminded himself that he was a Starfleet Captain and this was _laundry._

Forging ahead, he opened the box of soap flakes and dumped some into the boiler. They were drunk-tank pink and dissolved instantly into thick, equally pink suds when they hit the hot water, causing a soapy cloud of steam to hit him in the face. Spock stood there with a blank expression that was somehow managed to be judgmental.

That was pretty much what the day looked like. Captain James T. Kirk and Commander Spock of the _USS Enterprise_ , representatives of Starfleet, lugging dolly-tubs and sacks of laundry around a messy yard, ducking under clotheslines, Jim getting pink-faced and sore-armed all over again while he stirred a giant copper vat full undergarments.

The boiling water gave off huge clouds of steam and pink bubbles that floated placidly across the yard and into Jim’s mouth, causing him to hiccup pathetically. At this, Spock had given Jim a pitying look before telling him he'd take over. Jim had thought about protesting for the sake of his dignity, but he decided he really didn't care and had gladly undertaken Spock’s job of rinsing the clothes in cold water and getting them onto the lines.

While he worked, Jim's mind worked backwards, thinking through the details of the ruse to make sure everything was believable and consistent.

 _He was a teacher at my school_.

If only it were that simple. That didn’t begin to describe how he and Spock had actually met. Not the _Kobayashi Maru_ or the months Jim had spent _obsessed_ with its code after he'd taken it for the second time (Jesus, he still had _dreams_ about it sometimes) or the head-rush of triumphant pride when he'd finally beaten it.

When his name had been called during that awful academic hearing, Jim had felt _betrayed_ more than anything else. Like the person who'd written that amazing code should've understood what he was doing _—_ even as Spock’s cold voice cut through his hastily thrown together defenses.

_“You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk. A Captain cannot cheat death.“_

All of that seemed so unimportant compared with what had happened after, Jim thought, glancing over at Spock, who looked just as stoic stirring laundry as when he stood at his science station on the _Enterprise_. 

Not important.

Jim pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on not slipping on the muddy grass. _And_ on making sure the dry clothes he was pulling down and replacing with soggy ones didn’t get blown away by the damn wind before he got them into their basket.

Jim would do a lot of things, but he was dead set against chasing a pair of frilly underpants down a hill and into the drink. 

Iska and two of her kids joined them halfway through, her strong arms speeding the process immeasurably. Which was a relief. Despite what he’d told Iska, Jim was still dog-tired from the crash and the swim yesterday, and even lifting his arms above his head to hang laundry hurt.

It didn’t help that he kept having to smile and look obliging. Which he did, often. Throughout the day, set after set of sparrow people kept “happening” to drop by, all with some excuse—returning a dish, inquiring politely about Iska’s children or her husband Oqchr, harvest prospects and so on. But the way their round black eyes kept flitting to him and Spock made it clear they’d come to gawk.

“My plates, I would not have seen them again if not for you,” Iska said to Jim and Spock, winking one black eye and bobbing her head. “And some of these are not belonging to me, even.

Whenever the snoopers left, Jim’s mind wandered as he worked.

So far, he hadn’t asked about what the best way to get back to their ship would be. Immediate concerns: food, a place to spend the night, had taken precedence. And besides, he hadn’t wanted to be rude by immediately asking how they could leave.

But wondering how they were going to get back to the _Enterprise_ was an ever-growing weight in Jim’s mind, tiring him just as much as moving his increasingly sore limbs.

While on the one hand he knew they’d been incredibly lucky—that they could've landed _anywhere,_ in the middle of a volcano, on a planet with acid for air, or even just somewhere much further from sentient life. 

But on the other hand he was itching to leave as soon as possible: get over the mountains to the city Eztl had mentioned, maybe fix his communicator or failing that, find a Federation embassy or at least a shuttle to any of the tantalizingly nearby Federation planets in this system where the _Enterprise_ could come get them.

Jim was _sure_ it could be done. He'd do it. Even if it meant walking all the way there on foot.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

“We were informed that there is a city some distance away in which space travel is possible. Is this true?” Spock asked at dinner, who clearly had something similar on his mind.

“Oh yes,” said Iska cheerfully, while her husband Oqchr nodded next to her (Jim wasn't sure how much Standard he spoke). “Zsofia! It is a city over the mountains.

“Then you have been there?” Spock asked.

Oqchr shook his head. "We have not," he said in a slow, uncertain voice. 

“Josqa has been there,” Iska put in. “My sister’s husband’s brother. He lives in Ozu—a house-gathering in the mountains. He will know the way, I am thinking.”

“So there _is_ a way we could get there then?” Jim asked eagerly. “If we could get to Ozu we could get to the city—to Zsofia from there?”

“Yes, I am thinking so,” Iska said thoughtfully. “Much of the red-grain is taken to Ozu after its harvesting. From there it goes to the city.”

“Right. So how is the grain moved from here to there?” Jim asked, trying to be patient with this circumlocutory conversation. He hadn’t seen any forms of transportation besides the boats, but there had to be something. He couldn’t believe they lugged a shitton of grain all the way up into the distant mountains on _foot_.

“It goes in trucks!” one of the kids said—a green one, one of the boys. 

Iska nodded in confirmation, and Jim felt his heart leap. 

“And how soon do you think that’ll happen?” Jim asked, his heart beating fast in his chest while also trying not to make it obvious how important this was.

“Oh, soon,” Iska said. “The rains have come, and so perhaps twenty day-cycles from now until harvesting? Harvest takes,” Iska held up both hands, each with seven long fingers. “Fourteen more perhaps? For the picking and the cutting. Then the grains will go. You may go with the trucks, I am thinking. And when you are in Ozu, someone will come for the grain and you will go too.”

Although Iska probably though she was reassuring him, Jim felt his heart drop into his shoes. _Five_ weeks? That was more than a month. And agriculture was always iffy. It could take longer—and who knew how long it’d take to travel. _Fuck_.

“Is there any way to, em, speed things up a bit? Could we walk there?” Jim asked, desperately trying to keep his despair at bay.

“To Zsofia?” Iska asked, her eyes widening. “It is _very_ far. In the trucks, it is many, many hours to Ozu. We do not have the fuel to go often and walking would be weeks, I am thinking. And too cold—and floods, they come when we are not expecting them. And from Ozu to Zsofia,” Iska shook her head. “this would be walking in the mountains, and much longer. The mountains are too high for the waters, but there are the _Izrak_.” 

Her feathers bristled nervously. “No, I am thinking waiting is a safer way. And faster. Wait for the trucks, and then you may go to your ship again,” Iska said, clearly apologetic.

Smiling felt more like grimacing, but Jim reassured her that her plan was wonderful and that he and Spock would be just fine. Inside, he felt like walls were caving in around him.

Sound sort of blurred out soon after that, but Jim kept smiling and nodding and responding all the same, making it through the rest of dinner barely hearing what was being said. Smiling. Being _nice._

But when dinner was over and the dishes washed and put away, Jim excused himself with a few vague words about getting some air.

Outside it was the blue hour. The sun had gone down, it’s skinny last light keeping the sky from total black, and the rest of the world was cold shades of blue. Above him, unfamiliar stars were just beginning to wink into being in the sky—already so many more of them than you could see in Earth's light-polluted skies.

The sight of them should’ve been comforting, or awe-inspiring, but it wasn’t. Right now looking at them just made Jim feel how horribly far from home he was. 

Leaning against the house’s outer wall, he tipped his head back and pressed his palms into the cold clapboard, trying not to freak out. He tried to tell himself that this was good news. That at least there _was_ a way to get back, that he wouldn’t be stuck here forever.

But all he could think about was the _Enterprise_. Her clean lines and brilliant durasteel, his neat, comfortable quarters, _Bones,_ his crew, even his fucking _paperwork_.

This last thought produced a choked laugh. He’d do a mountain of paperwork if it meant he could be back there now, important tasks to complete, a crew depending on him, Bones to tell him when he was being stupid and boss him around.

He _needed_ his job.

Would Starfleet replace him? 

At this point, 24 hours must’ve gone by, so he and Spock had probably already been filed as M.I.A. Jim had filed that kind of paperwork himself, after Nero, writing letters to fam— _God,_ the letters. Jim's heart stopped. Had they already sent one to his mom?

His heart picked up again, pounding in his ears and he sunk to the ground, chest feeling like it was going to explode. 

His mom _couldn’t_ get another letter like that. Would she go off the rails? Lose her job, stop getting out of bed like whenever she gotten dumped? But this had to be worse than that—losing him or Sam was her worst fear, would she—

Would she kill herself?

 _She wouldn’t_ , he told himself. She still had Sam. Even if he was on another fucking planet. Bastard had better fucking call—no, he should come home. He would, right? 

_Sam would do it,_ Jim decided. _Sam would know to_. _He had to. He_ had _to._

His heart was beating too hard, and Jim put his face in his hands, trying not to panic. 

_She’ll be fine_ , he told himself again and again, repeating it like a mantra. 

“Captain, are you well?”

_Oh for—_

“No I’m not fucking _well,_ Spock.” Jim kept his face in his hands, not looking up, willing Spock to go away with all his might.

When a minute passed and Spock still hadn't gone away, Jim decided he couldn't ignore him anymore. Bringing his palms together in front of his nose like he was praying, he breathed out, once, before lowering his hands to the ground.

At least he hadn't cried, he reflected. Jim was an ugly crier and he didn't want Spock to see that.

He looked up at Spock, whose broad, blunt nose and froggy face were cast in the same blue as everything else.

In the dusk light, Spock was cast in the same blue as everything else. With his long limbs and dark, over-large irises, he looked more alien than ever. 

“You are distressed,” he stated, putting his hands behind his back.

"No, of course I’m not distressed.” Jim pushed himself to his feet. “Why would I be distressed? We just learned that it’ll be at least a _month_ before we can get back to Starfleet, so why wouldn’t I be absolutely _peachy?”_ As he stood, Jim accidentally put too much weight on his bad leg, making the cut pull. He grit his teeth, trying not to wince. 

“This is sarcasm,” Spock said, tilting his head fractionally to the side as though trying to understand a math problem.

Jim wanted to shout, or kick something (preferably Spock). He wanted to ask what Spock thought he was _doing_ right now. They weren't friends. Spock didn't get to ask him how he felt, and he didn't _want_ Spock to. Couldn't he see that all Jim wanted was to be alone?

Jim guessed that Spock was here to make sure he didn't do anything rash. Like try to commit grand-theft auto and make for the hills—which to be fair, Jim was _definitely_ considering. 

Annoyed, but not wanting to blow their cover by starting a fight, Jim crossed his arms, glaring at Spock's broad, blunt nose and _froggy_ face, but keeping his mouth shut. 

Straightening as though to further emphasize their height difference _—bastard_ _—_ Spock looked down his nose at Jim. “An emotional reaction will not alter the situation," he said in a clipped tone. "I too would have preferred a more rapid return, however, statistically we have been fortunate.”

Boiling with anger, Jim wanted to shout at him: _Fortunate?! It’s not the same for you! You’re not the untested_ child _who’s basically on probation until Starfleet decides he’s not going to fuck things up! You weren't piloting the shuttle! You’re not going to lose your job over this, and_ you _don’t_ need _this job like I do!’_

“When I informed you that the chances of survival were 57%,” Spock continued, either ignoring or not noticing Jim’s rage, “While that number was technically accurate, it was only the probability of surviving the crash itself. Chances of survival afterwards, on an unknown planet are, according to precedent, significantly lower.”

“How much lower?” Jim demanded, flabbergasted.

“Below 12%.”

“Still time to fit that statistic,” Jim muttered.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, we have been fortunate.”

Annoyed that Spock had a point, Jim glared at Spock's shoulder, eyes catching on the _ridiculous_ suspenders.

“You look like my grandfather in those,” Jim said peevishly.

Spock didn't respond and Jim knew he was acting like the stupid kid Spock thought he was, out of sorts because his pity-party had been interrupted. Jim didn’t even _have_ a grandfather _—_ at least not one that he’d met.

Chewing his lip, Jim took a breath. “So you’re telling me I should be grateful, is that it?" Jim gestured around them at the open air. "That I should be happy we’re stuck out here in the middle of nowheresville?”

“Do I appear to be happy to you?” Spock asked, dour face completely blank.

Jim snorted, rolling his eyes. “And he chooses right now to become a comedian. 'Course he does,” he muttered under his breath. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.” 

Jim turned back towards the house, the lights from the sparrow houses glinting off the inky water in the growing darkness, islands of yellow in the black. 

Despite his words, he did feel a little, a _very_ little bit better, knowing that he wasn’t totally alone here. Even if Spock was _Spock_.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Once he was in the bedroom though, that feeling evaporated when Jim remembered the bed. Uncomfortably small, it sat there, staring back at him in the dim light of the oil lamp.

While it had clearly been made for two people, it still wasn’t big enough that he’d be able to forget Spock was there too.

“I will sleep on the floor,” Spock said from behind him, as though reading his thoughts.

“Don’t be stupid," Jim said. "I’m not making you sleep on the floor for a month. Besides it gets fucking cold here. It’s fine, we can just pretend the other one isn’t there,” Jim said even though he knew that wouldn’t be possible, not for him at least.

“You clearly do not—”

“I said it was _fine,”_ Jim snapped. "Stop trying to make me feel better about things. _That’s_ what’s making me uncomfortable. It’s weird." 

And, to prove he wasn’t uncomfortable, Jim started taking off his clothes.

Unbuttoning the blouse was quick work, and soon he’d stepped out of his shoes and trousers too. This left him in the _bloomers_ —jeez, they were definitely bloomers, they had _lace_ on them—sleeveless linen undershirt and the bulky wool stockings. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled off the stockings. He hung them with the rest of his clothes over a chair back, neat because Spock was here, and Jim didn’t want him to think he was a slob. Which Jim probably was, but that wasn’t the _point._

Turning around, Jim saw that Spock hadn’t moved, and Jim glared at him before jerking up the quilts before climbing into the bed, scooting to the far side and turning his back to the room so he was facing the wall, so close to it his nose was almost touching it.

There, that’d show Spock. Jim had no problems sharing a bed at all. He’d shared tons of beds. Definitely more than _Spock_ ever had, idiot Vulcan jerk bastard.

“Captain—” Spock began.

“Have you ever slept on a floor in your life?” Jim asked, looking over his shoulder to see that Spock was still standing in the same spot. 

Spock didn’t respond.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Jim said, turning his head to face the wall again. Jim _had_ slept on floors before—a lot of them—and it pissed him off to hear Spock offering to for some reason. Like _he_ would know what it was like.

 _Fucking-idiot-rich kid._ That’s probably what Jim’s mom would’ve said, even though technically she’d married one. A rich kid, that is. Jim’s dad.

Sometimes, he liked to think about his mom calling his dad an idiot rich-kid, and then laughing like she always did when she wasn’t crying.

A beat had passed by now and Spock still hadn’t moved. Jim breathed through his nose. “Look,” he said, still facing the wall. “I get it, this isn’t ideal. If you’re uncomfortable, _I’ll_ sleep on the floor.” 

“That is not necessary,” Spock said stiffly and Jim didn’t know if he should feel good or bad that he’d out-stubborned Spock on this one.

Behind him, Jim heard the sound of rustling fabric, presumably Spock getting undressed.

Apart from today, Jim had never seen Spock in anything other than a uniform, and the thought of Spock with fewer clothes on, _getting into bed with him_ , got him hot and angry, like an electric current racing over his skin.

Not that he was _at all_ attracted to Spock like that. He wasn’t. 

But...it’d been a long time since he’d had sex—they'd only had one day of shore leave in five months of mission, okay?—and it pissed him off that his body went ‘man undressing’ plus ‘bed’ straight to _that._ Especially since it _was_ Spock.

 _God, I really_ _must_ _be a whore_.

Angry and humiliated, Jim pushed all these thoughts down and away, squeezing his eyes shut. He focused on the coarse texture of the handmade ticking and tried not to tense as he felt the bed dip as Spock’s weight was added to the edge.

A minute later, the light winked out, and Jim felt it as Spock shifted to lie down, just a few feet away from Jim under the covers.

 _Tough tomatoes,_ Jim thought to himself. _You’ve slept in worse places._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: slut-shaming word, brief reference to hypothetical suicide of a minor character, misgendering
> 
> Thank you to [@eunyisadoran](https://eunyisadoran.tumblr.com/post/190987703350/summerofspock-wingittofreedom) for the beautiful drawing of the laundry lines. And to [@doodlesprite](https://doodlesprite.tumblr.com/post/190851194215/jim-had-raised-his-eyebrows-still-smiling-we) for the wonderful comic of the turbolift scene.
> 
> The little sparrow-person sketch is how I pictured Iska. Also, this is how I imagined [Jim's bloomers](https://www.etsy.com/listing/700920279/antique-authentic-victorian-white-cotton?show_sold_out_detail=1&ref=nla_listing_details). 😳😏😏


	6. Tough Tomatoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle readers, several of you have noted that both Jim and Spock are behaving childishly. You are correct. Yet I ask for your patience on their behalf. Both of them are hangry. Especially Jim. 
> 
> Also, some of you to appear to be under the impression that Jim has “flaws” or is “insecure.” What are you talking about?? Jim is 100% perfect and would tell you so himself and also never lies ;) 😏
> 
> As always, thank you So Much to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for beta'ing!  
> Warnings in endnotes

When Jim woke up the following morning, he wasn’t really awake.

Everything was warm and soft and Jim had a deep, inchoate sense that today was a new day, full of bright possibilities.

Moments later this notion was put to the test as he tried to roll out of bed. It was more difficult than usual, his body encountering an obstacle.

But Kirk’s don’t believe in no-win-scenarios, nope, no siree, not-today-satan, today’s-not-the-day-Jim Kirk-bows-to—

“Fuck!” Jim yelped as his ass hit the floor. Oh, _god,_ that was cold. And extremely hard, when you smacked into it from several feet up. Was his tailbone bruised?

God, how embarrassing. Jim was grateful that at least no one had seen.

Spock’s face poked out at him from the edge of the bed, definitely seeing.

“Are you alright, Captain?”

Jim efficiently flipped him off and his face disappeared.

Realizing that this would be his life for the foreseeable future, Jim let his head fall back onto the floorboards with a thump. 

Not only was his tailbone throbbing, but all his muscles were even stiffer and more painful than they’d been the day before. _Annoying,_ because in Jim’s opinion the only justifiable reason for being that sore was really athletic sex the night before, which he most certainly _hadn’t_ gotten.

 _Life is pain,_ he thought as he stared bleakly up at the ceiling, wondering if his ass would bruise.

_This is a bright new day full of new possibilities._

Despite this inauspicious beginning, Jim was determined to put a good face on things, and he soon recovered.

Patting his voluminous trousers into place, Jim was out of the bedroom in a jiffy—if a bit bowlegged, moving like a rheumatic old man—full of energy and ready to beam at Iska and the four small and one large sleepy fluff balls that were her children and husband.

Jim had always been a morning person, and the early light, slanting yellow through the house and the smell of damp fruit and the strong herbal tea Iska had boiling on the stove made him feel that nothing could be as truly bad as it’d felt last night. 

“Is your husband liking to sleep long?” Iska asked quietly as Jim joined her in the kitchen where Oqchr was sleepily making something that smelled like breakfast on a wood stove. “Mine also.”

Jim really had no idea about whether or not Spock liked to sleep in. All he knew was that Spock was never late for the morning shift...but that he was never early either.

“Yep,” Jim guessed. 

Sure enough, when Spock eventually made his way out of the bedroom several minutes later, he looked as neat as usual on the surface, but Jim noticed with a thrill of schadenfreude how heavy and long his blinks were and how wide the intervals were between his bites.

 _Not a morning person_ , he added to the file of things he knew about Spock.

Over breakfast and dishes it was settled that Jim could have a free hand at fixing the various mechanical failings throughout the house. 

Iska was profuse in her thanks (“Oh, you could? So good—I cannot say.”) telling him to make sure not to re-injure himself, while Jim assured her it was no trouble.

Which wasn’t even a lie; as he’d discovered yesterday, the pump was hooked up to a busted water purifier, which he was fairly certain he could fix—specially if he could track down anything like a wire stripper, a wrench, and a few screwdrivers. 

“I could probably show you how so you can fix it if it ever breaks again,” Jim added.

Iska nodded gratefully. “Only, do not let Oqchr hear you saying this," she said quietly, looking at her husband at the other end of the table. "He would be too much excited, but he does not know machines. Once he tried to fix the grain-dryer himself—and, a mess. I do not know how it was done, parts everywhere.”

Jim laughed, almost burning himself with his tea. That reminded him of Bones. For such a smart guy, he was _terrible_ with technology. Jim swore he could break computers just by looking at them. The power of sheer, superstitious antipathy.

When Jim asked where he could find her when he was finished, Iska pointed towards the outdoors.

“We must be weeding and un-mucking our fields. The water-table has,” she waved a hand, pointing downwards. “Dropping. But we must pump the staying-water away from the fruit trees. If we do not, their roots may become rotted. Moving this water takes time.”

As tempted as Jim was to volunteer Spock for that, yesterday both Iska and Oqchr had expressed a lot of interest in the fact that Spock was a teacher. Put together with the fact that Eztl had dropped that the village didn’t have a Standard teacher at the moment, Jim felt obliged to offer Spock’s services. 

And, he reflected, the image of Spock trying to teach a class full of snotty elementary school children their ABC’s was nearly as good as the one where he got covered in mud.

“He’d be happy to help,” Jim said vindictively. He wasn’t a sadist, really. But _come on_.

Iska glanced doubtfully over at where Spock was sitting with her family, all of them looking like they’d rather be back in bed. Spock had probably never looked ‘happy’ in his whole life and Iska seemed like a shrewd enough judge of character to pick up on that.

Still, she was clearly pleased with the offer, and Spock nodded in solemn agreement when Iska asked him about it as the dishes were being collected.

“He has small arms,” one of the girls—Hebe, Jim was pretty sure—said when they were transporting the dishes to the kitchen. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Is that why he is a teacher?”

Jim tried not to laugh. “He’s stronger than he looks,” he said out loud, nodding to Iska who bustled off to get him a smock and the tools.

“His arms are bigger than yours though,” Hebe told Jim when her mother was gone. “ _My_ mom’s arms are bigger than our dad’s.” She gave him an unimpressed look.

Jim grinned smugly. “That’s because I’m smart enough to make him do all the work.”

Hebe chortled at that before darting back towards the table to snatch some food off her sister Margit’s plate, who instantly blamed Luzdj when she noticed it was missing. 

Although it was hard to tell, Jim was pretty sure that Luzdj and Margit were twins, boy and girl, and Hebe was the oldest.

Soon, Jim was waving goodbye as Iska led Spock and her three oldest children down the hill, presumably to the schoolhouse, her youngest son on her back while Oqchr brought up the rear.

Marveling at how quickly the water seemed to have drained away, Jim clambered up onto the roof where the hydro-tank sat to see what could be done about the water purifier.

 _A month. Maybe two_. Jim could do this.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Jim could not do this.

Eight days of being away from the _Enterprise_ , and Jim already felt himself fraying at the edges, unraveling like a tapestry that someone had forgotten to tie off.

By now Jim had fantasized many, _many_ times about stealing a truck and high-tailing it to the mountains. He would’ve done it to—except he didn’t think Spock would go for it. Besides, Jim didn’t know the way.

It was so bad, It was enough to make Jim wonder if Spock had really died in the crash, and he’d gone insane with hunger so that all of this was a wild fever dream of his imagination that he’d created to force himself to keep going.

It was _everything_ about this place. 

It was doing manual labor—the sort of work he thought he’d never have to go back to after joining Starfleet. It was having no one to talk to, no one besides _Spock_ and the Sparrow People, many of whom didn’t even speak Standard. It was being constantly sore and tired, muscles protesting every time he moved; a thousand tiny tediums and the stress of worrying about his mom, about what was going on without him, and would happen to his command. 

It was the cold and lonely silence, with none of the noises and chatter that made up the quotidian clamor of a starship to distract him from his thoughts. It was the too-clean air and a sky empty of the blinking lights of drones and the tell-tale vapor trails left by shuttles.

Days seemed to stretch on forever out here, and Jim couldn’t tell if that was time playing tricks on him or if the Sparrow People’s days _were_ actually longer.

Early morning would wake him each day, pleasantly warm and comfortable. Pleasantness and comfort that were leached away pretty damn quick when he remembered where he was. 

Then he would be filled by boiling annoyance whenever he had to elbow one of Spock’s limbs out of his space—because apparently being an uptight _asshole_ while awake didn’t stop Spock from sprawling out like a kid trying to hog the bed while asleep. Every. Goddamn. Night.

Sighing and trying to tamp down his rage, Jim would clamber out of bed. A delicate, stealthy process because he didn’t want to risk waking up Spock. Didn’t want to because avoiding a repeat of the _unfortunate incident_ of the second morning of their stay was high on his priority list.

 _...just_ for the record though, Jim still felt totally justified about that—Spock’s arm had been pressed against Jim’s _back._ So was it really his fault that he’d pushed it away? Okay, maybe shoving it like he’d done, and almost rolling Spock off the bed had been a _bit_ of an overreaction—but had he really deserved the half-lidded Vulcan death glare he’d gotten? Or the way Spock had been even more hostile than usual that day?

All the same, Jim was quieter now when he got out of bed.

After that he’d get dressed in his stupid, shapeless clothes and then try, for several frustrating and unsuccessful minutes, to smooth his cow-licked hair into place. 

The smoothing never worked.

Back on the _Enterprise_ , the shampoo he used made it fall, gracefully to one side of his face, lending him a dignified, ever-so-slightly tousled charm. 

But out here, it was constantly sticking straight up—like a literal cow had licked him in the face not a minute ago. Or, like a frizzy ‘fuck you’ from the universe.

What was more, being in this planet’s strong, over-large sun all day was steadily bleaching his hair an ever more _strawberry_ blonde—and Jesus Christ, Jim Kirk was _not_ supposed to be a _redhead_. _Carroty_ -blonde, sticky-up hair and clothes that could've been yanked straight out of _Hee Haw_ made him look like the idiot, white-trash hick he’d been trying to leave behind for half his life. As it was, he might as well’ve had the gap-toothed lisp and perpetually dirty face back too.

His only, dreary consolation was that there were no mirrors so he didn't have to see how ugly he looked.

Dismal ritual complete, he’d dawn the barn coat and ear-flap hat that Iska had lent him, then trudge out into the still-dark morning: a world full of soggy grass and invisible dripping. In a small paddock abutting the house, he'd help Iska milk the _harel_ , a small canine-like species that was herded by many of the families here.

As a morning person, Jim didn’t mind this part of the day so much. He’d always liked animals, especially dogs, and the enclosed stable was relatively warm. This made working with the murmuring, nipping pile of white, calico and speckled _harel_ , at least calming if nothing else. 

Breakfast, (Iska called it ‘first meal’) wasn’t so bad either. Always with boiling tea and _sot_ , that kept the morning chill at bay, he and Iska making soft, cheery conversation that had a distinctly Midwestern tenor in Jim’s opinion—while the others grumbled through their red-grain porridge. 

Next came the dishes. There were _always_ dishes, it seemed.

Sonics, replicators and microwave dinners meant that Jim hadn’t done a dish in literal years, so it was a good thing all of the dishes and cutlery were made of pewter and wood rather than ceramic because Jim had dropped so many.

After that ritual embarrassment, Jim would spend a good bit of the day fixing something on Iska’s property—or increasingly, being lent out to Iska’s neighbors to deal with various mechanical failures, since the Sparrow People, while they seemed to be ingenious when it came to wooden structures and boats, were in general a little lost around machines. 

Well, except maybe Hebe.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” she’d asked him three days into their stay, as, greasy but pleased, he’d crawled out from underneath the back-up generator he’d been fixing (it turned out the Sparrow People _did_ have electricity, but that they didn’t rely on it because damp weather made it too dangerous).

Jim had smiled at her, thinking quickly about how to answer. 

Children had always made him a little uncomfortable. He didn’t _dislike_ them—Jesus, he wasn't a _sociopath_ —but he hadn’t spent much time around them since he was one, and he never knew quite what to do around them. 

Out of Iska’s children, Hebe’s behavior was at least the most familiar. She was the mouthiest and the meanest, reminding him of Bones’ daughter. Like Joanna, Hebe was constantly in trouble, Hebe for a whole slew of crimes that Jim had never heard of, and yet somehow seemed very familiar. _Harel_ chasing, for one. 

“It’s a boring story,” he’d deflected. Then he’d had to stop himself from wincing. He sounded just like the adults _he_ hadn’t liked as a kid.

The look Hebe gave him confirmed this, and Jim sighed internally.

“When I was your age—wait, how old are you?”

“I _already_ told you, I’m eleven.” She’d scowled at him, muttering something that sounded like ‘feather-brain’ under her breath.

“Right,” Jim had said, having no memory of that. “Anyway, when I was about eleven I went to a camp—”

“What’s a camp?”

“A place to send kids sometimes and—”

“Why?”

Jim had bitten back his knee-jerk impatience. _This_ was why kids made him uncomfortable. Adults knew when you wanted them to leave you alone and stop asking questions.

But he was _trying_ to humor her, and his mind grasped at straws for an analogy. 

“Kids get sent to teach camp to learn—like a school,” he’d said, hurrying on before she could interrupt again. “Anyway, things kept breaking,” _Like environmental control systems, replicators, and lights._ “And the adults didn’t have time to fix it, so we figured out how,” Jim finished, hoping she’d be satisfied. 

“Can you show me?” Hebe had asked. Sparrow person expressions were tricky, but to Jim, her eyes had looked hopeful.

_Fuck._

“Go ask your mom,” he’d sighed. 

Looking pleased, Hebe had leapt from the room, soaring a little. Although they didn’t have actual wings, the Sparrow People were light despite their sturdy builds, and their arm-feathers seemed to help them glide a bit on occasion.

Suppressing another sigh, Jim had slid back underneath the generator. 

He’d known he’d probably been too cranky, and he was annoyed at himself. To stop himself from thinking about it, he focused back on his task: switching off the fuel valve so he could take the carburetor apart to see if that was the problem, starting to hum a country song as he did so.

The tune reminded him of how much his mom hated it when he played that stuff, even though she liked it too.

 _“I don’t understand_ why _you like it_ — _p_ _eople will think you’re a hick, and Jim, you’re so smart.”_

_“That’s what you get for raising me in Riverside, Mom.”_

_“I just want people to see how smart you are. That test you took_ — _it said you’re a genius.”_

_“Okay, Mom.”_

She was always saying things like that. 

As a kid, Jim had listened. He’d _always_ been trying to be smart. 

That had changed. Jim knew it was usually better if people _didn’t_ know how smart you were. People didn’t trust smart. Smart put people on guard, which made them harder to deal with. And the word ‘genius’? That was a fucking joke.

Jim would know. He'd been called that a lot. By Pike, a few professors at the Academy, fellow cadets, newspaper articles. 

In his personal opinion, being smart just meant he was as good at causing problems for himself as he was at solving them...but Jim _did_ have a memory that got at what they meant.

Mr. Lee, his second grade teacher had written an advanced physics problem up on the board—Jim didn’t remember what for. None of the other kids had understood any of the explanation—but Jim couldn’t see why not. It was _easy_. He remembered looking around and wondering ‘how do they not get this?’

And at first he’d felt proud. But when he’d raised his hand to answer the teacher’s question, several of the other kids had looked at him funny. Kicking stones on the way home from school that day, Jim had realized that understanding the problem wasn't a good thing. It just meant different _._ Alone. _Isolated._

What’s more, being a _‘genius’_ hadn’t stopped him from screwing up the first half of his life, and it certainly had never made him any friends.

“You were speaking of Tarsus IV,” Spock’s voice had said, breaking through his thoughts.

Startled, Jim had banged his head on the metal hull. 

“Ouch! Goddamnit Spock, don’t sneak up on people!”

He’d only just stopped worrying about Spock’s concussion, the last thing he needed now was one of his own.

“Vulcans do not sneak,” Spock had said, deadpan.

“Yeah, and I bet they don’t tell jokes either,” Jim’d muttered, his smarting forehead adding to his annoyance that Spock had been eavesdropping. He didn't _want_ Spock to know him. Why was Spock even here? To chew him out for _humming?_

“They do not,” was the only thing Spock had said.

“What _do_ they talk about then?” Jim had asked, half-curious and half-willing to say _anything_ to direct the conversation away from himself since even those who'd been on the good list on Tarsus didn't like talking about it.

“I would not know,” Spock’s voice had said.

Now _that_ was a weird response. He’d paused his attempts to detach the carburetor.

“Why w—” Jim had begun, but just then Hebe had rushed back into the room, waving a smock (“She said I have to say pleaseandthankyou,” she’d hurried through the fine print). 

Moments later, Jim had seen Spock’s feet move away, left to wonder what that’d been all about.

Spock wasn’t the only one of Jim’s problems though.

Cagier than Iska and Oqchr, most of the families Jim interacted with didn’t speak Standard quite as well either. In Jim’s experience, speaking more than one language usually went hand in hand with greater openness and friendliness, meaning that the families who didn’t speak it as well were often warier of him, cagey in a way that went beyond the language barrier. 

_Especially_ when he couldn’t fix their problem. Not even Jim could fix everything without the right parts, and the looks of disappointment on their faces were hard to take.

Jim hated disappointing people.

So while there were exceptions, compared to some of the other families, Iska and Oqchr were much more receptive to him and Spock. Which probably wasn’t surprising since no matter where you came from, you had to be a special sort of person to invite crash-landed aliens into your home. 

Iska and Oqchr were more ‘progressive’ too, in the Terran sense of the word, encouraging their daughters to go to school—which Jim had been sad to learn, wasn’t the norm in this village. Jim himself had gotten more than a few odd looks, since his skill with machines didn’t seem to fit with the ideas of femininity these people had.

It was all a little humiliating. The misgendering thing. Even if he hadn’t had to wear anything more girly than the underclothes and blouses with floral embroidery.

But it was still embarrassing as all get out to have this happen in front of _Spock._

Spock was already stronger (by a factor of three, _Jesus),_ several inches taller (three, Jim had stooped to comparing their goddamn medical clearance files), probably a lot smarter, and perfect at _everything_ —and all of that already made Jim feel fucking inferior, and being misgendered made him feel worse. _Emasculated._ Like he wasn’t good enough at _being a man_.

That was stupid, he knew. Maybe sexist too, even if Jim couldn’t figure out how. It was just that Jim was acutely aware of how much shittier his life would have been born a girl.

After the Eugenics wars, a lot of old, shitty gender norms had made comebacks—stuff that had never _really_ gone away and which had lingered on in Riverside and other rural strongholds of traditional morality. Even if his mom had always said _that kind of thing_ was stupid. 

But it still didn’t feel good. To have people think you were a gender that you weren’t. And somehow not being straight made Jim even more uncomfortable about the whole thing. He wasn’t sure why. 

Maybe because masculinity—the kind Jim had picked up from men in bars, and his mothers’ boyfreinds—often seemed to be so much about _fucking women,_ and liking guys wasn’t a part of that.

Spock—fuck him—was probably straight. There’d been rumors about him and Uhura, and for all Jim knew maybe they were true. Jim had no idea what gender norms were like on Vulcan, or if Jim was failing them too, or what Spock thought about all this. 

Not knowing didn’t make him any more comfortable.

Depending on what he was working on and what Iska needed help with, Jim would make his way down to the fields in the afternoon. An outcropping of the wide river, the Sparrow People’s fields were submerged, reminding Jim of _chinampas_ or rice paddies rather than the corn or soy fields he was used to.

There, he would join Iska, who bore her puny son Ixo on her back, secured by one of the colorful, _manta-_ like wraps which many of the women used for the same purpose.

If it was before noon, shortly they would be joined by Spock, Oqchr and the rest of the kids, signaling a pause for lunch. 

In the fields, Jim would do whatever he was told, picking the hard, apple-like fruits, tree-nuts, and a variety of other fruits that grew half-wild in the tangled groves by the river; wading through the deep, muddy water of the red-grain fields, avoiding the sharp points of the thorny stalks and uprooting scraggly weeds; mending and checking the fishnets and the _harel_ fences; pruning huge limbs off the fruit trees when they grew too close together or helping re-stack the levee by the river delta which had toppled during the flood. 

On the fifth day, he and Oqchr had been holding a rope attached to a tree limb, there to make sure it would fall in the right direction once it was sawed off. 

Although Oqchr couldn’t speak much Standard, they’d been cobbling together a sort of conversation. About how he and Iska wanted to send Hebe to school in the city. 

“But it is far,” Oqchr had said gravely.

 _And not cheap_ , Jim had filled in mentally. “Are there scholarships she could apply for?”

Oqchr had nodded, twittering something before switching back into Standard. “Yes. They are not many. But Hebe might go,” he’d said. “She is smart.”

Jim had laughed, feeling genuinely touched by the idea that Oqchr wanted to give his daughter the education he hadn’t gotten, and he’d been about to touch Oqchr arm and say _something_ —when he’d noticed that he was being glared at by several Sparrow-women. 

As soon as he’d noticed, Jim had widened the space between himself and Oqchr, making sure not to laugh again and keeping his replies polite but short.

Jim knew what looks like that meant after all. He’d been getting them since he was fifteen. Not _exactly_ the same kind of look, since here he was being treated as a girl and girls always got the worst of it, but close enough.

After that he’d made an effort not to talk to Oqchr or any of the other male Sparrow People in public, making sure to keep his head down and stay close to Spock—his putative _husband_ —so he wouldn’t upset the apple cart. Ruffle any feathers. Whatever.

Jim supposed he deserved it. That all of this was more just comeuppance for all the mean, rude things he’d said to women in bars or in bed, and for how he’d taunted Spock about his sexuality. Jim had never before thought the universe was fair, but this whole _debacle_ was really making him question that.

 _God,_ he hoped the universe wasn’t fair.

It probably _was_ —and wouldn’t that be the world’s least funny joke. Iska's warning on their first day in the fields hadn't done anything to refute that theory:

“Careful,” she’d said. “It is mud season.”

_Of course it was._

It was enough to make him wonder what _Spock_ had done to deserve this. That was a good game. Wondering what the universe had on Spock. Had he forgotten to floss his teeth, once, five years ago? Used an idiom that wasn’t strictly, scientifically accurate? Embellished, just a little?

 _Bastard_.

Jim didn’t have to wonder what _he’d_ done to deserve this.

The cut on his leg had closed and his ankle healed, but working outdoors like this was hard—almost greuling—compared with his rather sedentary duties as a captain and his probably not very impressive gym routine. Soon Jim’s calves were yellow with bruises, his heels blistering and the already permanent calluses on his hands thickening into hard circles of skin. 

_Soon I’ll be an actual redneck again_ , Jim thought to himself as he helped Iska expand one of the plots in her kitchen-garden.

At least being tired made it easier to go to sleep at night. 

Another consolation was getting to see Spock—who Jim pictured living in a goddamn ivory tower his whole life, with his lily-pale skin and uncalloused hands—do the sort of work Jim himself had done for years. As a kid doing chores for his neighbors in exchange for a few dollars, and then after graduating from high school. In the wasted years before Starfleet, working with his hands instead of his mind.

Unfortunately, this small pleasure was damped pretty quick—the universe, or whatever sadistic alien species that was running the show up to its usual chicanery: on the fifth day of their stay, Jim’d noticed that several of the women had taken to eyeing Spock as he worked, twittering amongst themselves in their own language as his first officer lifted large numbers of sandbags with apparent ease. 

It was pretty obvious what looks like that meant, even if Jim couldn’t understand the language.

“It is because he is strong,” Iska had whispered to Jim when she’d noticed him observing this phenomenon. “Strong is important here and your husband is good at lifting. Do not worry though,” she assured. “He stays always by you, and I have seen how he looks at you.”

 _You mean with morbid distaste?_ Jim had wondered, definitely a little jealous that Spock was clearly so impressive to the women here. What the Sparrow People thought of _him_ was probably much less positive: an odd smallish bird-wife who crawled around on top of their houses fixing things and was lucky to have a ‘husband’ who could heft so many sandbags, probably. 

_Yeah,_ he was so lucky.

As he worked, his thoughts often rambled.

Did Starfleet reimburse you for time spent stuck on a planet if you'd crashed there in the line of duty? Jim knew it was a stupid thing to worry about, but he did.

Having scraped by at the Academy on a work-study program and a generous scholarship, Jim had really been looking forward to having actual money for once in his life. Captain's made more in a month than Jim ever had in a _year_ , and he really didn't want to be out two months pay.

He supposed it wouldn't matter when he was demoted. Starfleet would have to punish someone for the shuttle crash right?

Jim pictured himself, stuck on some distant outpost, drinking synthenol and surviving on protein nibs, slowly going mad and ending up in love with one of whatever Keenser was.

Spock was usually there too, just to make things worse: ignoring it when Jim talked, taking his synthenol and telling him off for not filing his nib-consumption paperwork properly.

Jim had flat out decided not to let that happen. If Starfleet tried to reassign him, he'd hack Spock's bank account, steal his money, and flee the Federation and start a new life on Ferengi. As a high-profile smuggler maybe. That'd be more fun at least.

He pictured himself robbing Spock's distant outpost at gunpoint, wearing an eyepatch—he was always wearing an eyepatch for some reason—and saying something clever like 'Ah, we meet again Mr. Spock,' or 'This outpost isn't big enough for the two of us.'

And the Spock would cooly raise an eyebrow and say 'Kirk. Your eyepatch is illogical,' and hit him with a phaser blast.

Jim didn't know what it said about him that even in his power fantasy Spock got the last word. Did he mention he was going a little crazy out here?

Work in the fields ended in the evening.

Cold sent them all home to change out of clothes wet from the flooded fields, brisk walks under towering clouds lit with sunset: cold air matched by Spock’s cold presence by his side:

“Hey Spock, I think you’re gonna to break some hearts when we leave, that one ch—”

“Please cease speaking.”

At least the sunsets were beautiful.

After a lukewarm shower in the wooden stall outside, dusk air stealing away what little warmth there was, evenings mostly revolved around food. Eating and keeping warm were central to life here, Jim supposed.

Tasks included tidying up; canning or drying fruit; repairing clothes; or cleaning, peeling and gathering herbs, vegetables and fungi from Iska’s garden for her soups and teas. 

Eventually, Jim would end up lying on the floor, playing wooden board games with Iska’s kids and sometimes Oqchr, Hebe picking fights whenever she didn’t win and the twins at a constant low-grade bicker, Ixo hiding in the kitchen with his mom and never speaking.

Dinner was always...complicated. 

Meals were large: sturdy bread and giant bowls of soup, fruit, dumplings, _sot,_ and starchy vegetables.

All of it was abundant and colorful, but none of it appealed to Jim. He couldn’t taste it. Unfamiliar foods felt heavy and strange in his mouth, and Jim wasn’t used to eating in front of people, which made him self-conscious.

Part of him didn’t think it was worth the effort. 

But they were working so hard outside that Jim knew that if he didn’t eat he’d probably collapse, or faint, or something embarrassing. And then Spock would think he was weak, or that he’d done it on purpose for attention. So Jim ate. Partly to keep himself going and partly out of spite: chewing slowly and nausea troubling his stomach long after he’d swallowed.

Without all this weighing on him, Jim was vaguely aware that dinner would’ve been almost...nice. They reminded him of his mom’s loud, frozen-pizza or spaghetti dinners (“Italian food”), in between boyfriends when the three of them would eat together. Minus all the extra kids.

“They’re called _huila_ ,” Margit had explained politely when what looked like round baked potato–like dumplings were handed out one evening.

“You have to punch it,” Hebe had said, pointing at the one on his plate.

He’d narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you tugging my feathers?” (Iska said this to Hebe often, apparently it was similar to _‘are you pulling my leg?’_ ).

“No, she’s right,” Luzdj had chimed in. “It’s the hitting way. You have to do it right, otherwise you’ll burn your hand and make a mess.” 

“Like this,” Hebe had said, raising her hand and punching Luzdj’s potato, which split apart to reveal a fluffy, light yellow inside.

“Hey!” Luzdj had squawked. “I wanted to do that!” 

“Be quicker then.”

“You can punch mine,” Jim had told Luzdj, deftly avoiding it when Hebe tried to punch his too. He’d seen her eyeing it greedily, and he’d learned a thing or two about anticipating people’s actions as a captain.

“Dumb,” she’d muttered, kicking Jim under the table. 

“Be quicker next time,” Luzdj had said snottily. Hebe tried to shove his _huila_ in his face, and a fight ensued, broken up almost before it began when Iska lifted both of them by the scruffs of their necks—still trying to fight—into the air and set them gently down in opposite corners of the room to wait out a sentence of five minutes. Jim had never seen such an efficient, effective display of parenting.

“Manners,” Iska had chided before going back to her seat. She gave Jim an affectionate pat on the head as she went and he had to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. Sparrow People, he’d noticed, showed affection by touching each others' feathers: gentle ruffles like kisses, or cheek-to-cheek presses like a greeting between family—and the Sparrow People seemed to view his hair as feather-equivalents.

So Jim was flattered and touched and glowing with attention, but he tried not to show it. He didn’t want Spock to see that for some reason—if he was even watching.

That was always the tricky part. The sour part. The part that made him nervous—Spock being there too. Jim was around him for at least half the day, but it was worse in close quarters, like at meals or in their room.

Having him there made Jim feel like he had to have two faces on at the same time. Or like he was a chameleon trying to be two colors at once. He wanted to pretend he was enjoying his food, play it up to make Iska feel good, but he also didn’t want Spock to see him eat, see him _enjoying_ something, and wanting both things made him feel cracked down the middle.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. Not by half.

Because after the dishes had been washed, _every night,_ he had to take off his outer clothes and go to sleep in the same bed with Spock, which was his least favorite part of the day by far.

Least favorite because rushes of sexual attraction he kept feeling didn’t go away—with no privacy to even rub one out in the shower.

The thing was, Jim _always_ wanted sex. Since he’d hit puberty. And his body didn’t care that it was Spock, and that Spock was a stupid jerk. It had nothing to do with Spock, Jim knew. 

But it was humiliating all the same. 

His only consolation was that he was so exhausted from working that he generally fell asleep quickly—as soon as Spock was done squirming and shifting around on the hard mattress—the pampered _snob._

The whole thing made him feel like one of those pale, sickly 21st century women trapped in a loveless marriage, dying of consumption or whatever it was people died of back then—with a frigid, asshole husband who thought Jim was so far beneath him that he wouldn’t even fuck him. Not that Jim wanted that—but he wanted _Spock_ to want that so that Jim could _snub_ him.

It fucking sucked, basically.

And after that first night, rigidly facing the wall, Jim had decided he couldn’t do it again. That it really would be better if they took turns sleeping on the floor. 

But the house grew cold at night, and even under the covers wasn’t entirely comfortable until enough heat from their bodies had gathered to fill the tense space between them and Jim had quickly given up this idea. Uncomfortable as the whole situation was and as bad as the thoughts it made him think were, in a room full of things he couldn’t say.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

At first Jim had maybe hoped that if he and Spock could come out of this—if not friends, then at least _friendlier_ —this little forced vacation wouldn’t be a total waste. 

But sharing space seemed to make their relationship tenser if anything: Jim angry and Spock cold in response.

Jim was on the point of deciding Bones was right. That he should just ignore Spock as much as possible, take the hit when Spock filed his character eval (which would no doubt be a manifesto on how Jim was morally insane, annoying and reckless) and wait until he inevitably transferred to a different ship or went off to join the colony on New Vulcan (Jim still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t). 

But defeat wasn’t easy for him. And painful, stupid hope every time Spock said something half-way decent kept him going, as it had for the last five months of their assignment.

Jim himself was—

Well, he was trying not to be unhappy. Working mostly kept his head busy, and although bad thoughts were never far away, he was _trying_ to accept that there was nothing he could do to make the time until he could get back on his ship go faster. 

Even if at night his eyes were inexorably pulled to the mountains, thoughts wandering down an imaginary path that led to their feet. One that would take him to the city or maybe just get him high enough in the sky that if he could shout loud enough that the _Enterprise,_ or the stars themselves, could hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: classist slur, fragile masculinity, reference to masturbation, negative thoughts about eating
> 
> In this chapter, Jim is Howl, calling the spirits of darkness because of his hair:
> 
> "Now I'm repulsive...I can't live like this..."
> 
> "Come on, it's not that bad.”
> 
> “I give up...I see no point in living if I can't be beautiful...” — _Howl’s Moving Castle_ , English Transcript, Hayao Miyazaki
> 
> Now I really want Spock to pull a Sophie and shout “Fine! So, you think you've got it bad? I've never once been beautiful in my entire life! I’ve had enough of this place!” *runs out of the castle and cries*
> 
> Everyone in the comments has been so lovely—I wish I could give shout outs to you all. And to the several of you have made fanart for this story. I am over the moon swooning, you have no idea, I treasure each and every one of your arts at though it were my own. 
> 
> On that note, thank you so much to @eunyisadoran for the sparrow-person drawing and [ the beautiful landscapes](https://eunyisadoran.tumblr.com/post/190987703350/summerofspock-wingittofreedom) in this chapter, to @startracked for the [disheveled Jim standing in the fields](https://startracked.tumblr.com/post/190970692058/hair-like-a-frizzy-fuck-you-from-the-universe), and to @doodlesprite for [this cute comic of Jim](https://doodlesprite.tumblr.com/post/610959854243299328/jim-and-spock-is-mean-and-everybody-thinks-hes). The first part is displayed in the chapter (Jim in bloomers and in a blouse w/pink hair). Here is the other part: 
> 
> **Jim:** And Spock is MEAN and everybody thinks he’s so GREAT and I’m NOBODY’S FAVORITE—  
>  _Text included from @doodlesprite's original post_  
>  (the tiny landscape and the white-blonde jim are my drawings).


	7. Pot and Kettle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful drawing of Iska and Jim!  
> Warnings in endnotes

It was evening, twelve days into their stay and Jim was being soundly trounced by Hebe at chess. Actual chess—who’d have thought? Apparently the set had been brought here years ago, by the Ylvite missionaries who had taught the village Standard. 

The board was 2-D of course, it’s wooden pieces shaped like tiny flocks of doves and crows. Hebe called the pieces by different names too, ones which must’ve come from whoever had made it because they suggested a cosmopolitan awareness of the Sparrow People’s avian biology as well as Standard. Castles were ‘nests,’ pawns were ‘chicks,’ and the king was ‘The Egg.’

Originally, the names must’ve been a way to teach Standard, but they’d clearly become mingled with Xochuilan words over the years, since knights were ‘ _harel,'_ and queens were ‘ _izrak’_ —a dangerous species that lived in the high mountains.

The rules had changed a little too—although not as much as Hebe kept trying to trick Jim into believing. 

Over the past almost two weeks, Jim had grown _slightly_ more accustomed to being around kids. Or at least Hebe. Mostly because she hadn’t given him a choice. She’d taken to following him around whenever he was fixing something, badgering and asking questions. 

Iska said it was because Hebe looked up to him.

“Weird-looking and stupid,” she said from across the boar as she murdered one of Jim's bishops.

Jim knew it was because she sensed weakness. Like a shark scenting blood.

“Manners,” Iska chided, stepping out of the kitchen to ruffle Hebe’s feathers. “Beautifulness is deeds, not how someone looks.” She winked knowingly at Jim. “And smartness,” she said to Hebe, “this is knowing when someone else is smarter than you.”

“But what if someone is stupid _and_ weird-l—” Hebe began, but her protest was cut short when she saw the unimpressed expression on her mother’s face.

Turning to Jim, Iska’s expression softened into amusement. Jim was hoping for a pat of his own, but instead she placed a round something into his hand. A fruit. 

"For you," she beamed.

“Thanks,” Jim said, slightly disappointed and trying to proffer his head as subtly as possible.

Predictably, Hebe demanded fruit too, and Iska, clearly adept at anticipating needs, produced a second one from her apron pocket before reaching over to at last give Jim his pat. She winked at him again before stepping back into the kitchen. 

Feeling like he was missing something, Jim took a distracted bite of the fruit. Whatever it was—like jicama but sweet—was good. Unexpectedly good, even if dinnertime was technically over and she and Spock were washing up. (When Jim’d tried to help, Iska had told him to _please_ go distract Hebe, not in so many words).

“Jim, if you don’t focus you’re going to lose for the seventh time in a row,” Hebe informed him, munching smugly on her own fruit. “That would be very embarrassing for you.”

“Alright, alright,” Jim said smiling, turning back to the board. “You’re the captain.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re the boss of me.”

“Good. I am.”

Jim laughed, shuddering a little as she knocked one of his pawns off the board with an unforgiving swipe. He put the rest of the fruit in his mouth, absently enjoying the taste.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Later, when Jim was getting ready for bed, his hair still damp from his shower and undressing as efficiently as possible, what Iska had said earlier cropped up in his head again.

 _Beautifulness is deeds, not how someone looks_. 

Jim snorted, stepping out of his shoes. He’d heard ‘handsome is as handsome does’ a hundred times if he had once, but he’d always known it wasn’t true.

Appearance was power and beauty was like genius: it made some people hate you and some people like you too much. All in all, Jim supposed he was lucky that no one _actually_ judged you by your actions.

“You purposefully allowed her to win,” said Spock from behind him, and Jim turned to see him entering the room.

“How would you know?” Jim asked, scowling as he unbuttoned his shirt. “You’ve never seen me play chess.” 

There was a history there. Jim had asked Spock to play chess once, early on in the mission since he’d heard from Chekov (who’d been in the Academy chess club) that Spock played.

Unsurprisingly, Spock had said ‘no’ without any explanation and Jim, annoyed at himself for even bothering, hadn’t asked again.

In the present moment, Spock gave him a look that he didn’t know how to interpret, taking a seat on the chair. “Do you wish to play now?”

“Why?” Jim asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “So you can feel superior when you win?” 

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed as he leaned over to begin unlacing his boots. “The purpose of chess is not victory, but to improve one’s ability to reason.”

Stepping out of trousers, Jim rolled his eyes. _Everything_ was about winning. “Yeah, okay, whatever you say,” he said, kicking the pants into his hands.

Spock tilted his head. “Regardless of the purpose, I had been led to believe you were not daunted by such odds.”

Jim’s lips pursed. Was Spock complimenting him or insulting him? It was impossible to tell, and Jim decided it didn’t matter. 

He knew Spock thought he was an idiot, and he wanted to call Spock out on it. To tell him to _stop pretending_. But Jim kept his mouth shut, putting a hand on the backboard for balance, and twisting around to yank off a stocking, scowling at the bedpost. 

Spock straightened, his eyebrows still furrowed. “You are certain I would win?” he asked.

“No, but _you_ are,” Jim said, setting his foot back on the ground and turning to glare at Spock with his hands on his hips.

“That is incorrect,” Spock said impassively. “While it is true that the limits of human educational methods have often been impressed on me, and as a Vulcan I possess certain cognitive advantages, I do not believe you to be incapable of winning.”

 _Jesus Christ Spock was a snob_. 

“Oh great, thanks. So it’s not just me you think is stupid—it’s all humans. How does Uhura feel about you thinking that?”

“You are purposefully mistaking my words.”

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. Let’s play chess,” Jim said, yanking his overshirt back over his head. Without waiting for a response, he stepped outside, hoping no one was still out and about to be scandalized by seeing him in his bloomers. 

The chessboard was still in the main room and Jim snatched it up before turning on his heel and heading back to the bedroom.

“If I win, you have to admit you’re a jackass,” Jim said, unfolding the board on the bed and dumping out the pieces. They scattered on the blankets like tiny birds, a couple bumping into one of Spock’s knees.

Spock gave him a chilly look. “That is childish. I do not accept those terms.”

Jim rolled his eyes, taking a seat on the bed across from him. “Fine.” He paused, tilting his head and smirking. “What about admitting that I’m the most attractive person you’ve ever met?” 

Spock’s expression didn’t change and Jim remembered abruptly that he probably still didn’t look like he usually did. Had Spock noticed? Did Spock even notice that kind of thing?

“Ugh, fine,” Jim said, pushing those thoughts away and switching his focus to more pragmatic concerns. “How about if I win, then once we get back to the _Enterprise_ , you’re not allowed to bash me for my paperwork.”

Spock’s brow furrowed. “If you do not complete your assigned tasks before their deadlines then I have no choice but t—”

“Have _any_ of the deadlines I’ve missed been legitimately high-priority?” Jim cut in, feeling justifiably churlish.

Spock paused, considering, and Jim started plunking the pieces into place, realizing he probably should’ve said something to that effect before—explained that his lateness had less to do with shirking, and more to do with _prioritizing._

But in Jim’s experience it was better not to beg forgiveness _or_ permission, and hating to make excuses or explain himself had always stopped him.

They were only talking now, probably, because there was no one else here to talk to. And because Jim had gone more than a little cracked in the last week.

“Very well,” Spock said, breaking his silence. “Unless the matter is of critical importance, I will refrain.” _That_ was surprising. “However,” Spock continued. “If I win then if I request explanations for your behavior, you will provide them without equivocating.”

Jim narrowed his eyes at the board as he set up the row of white, dove-shaped pawns. That was shrewder than he’d expected. Honesty was a big ask and agreeing to give someone information in advance was never a good idea.

But he wanted to see Spock lose, to make him feel as stupid as he made Jim feel so badly that he didn’t care. 

He nodded his agreement, reflecting that he could always lie if it came to it. _Goody-goodies_ like Spock were always so gullible.

Spock let Jim have white— _case in point_ —and Jim didn’t protest because he wanted to win and he’d take any advantage he could get.

The next few minutes or so were tense, quiet except for the sound of pieces clicking against the board.

Spock was good, Jim was annoyed, but not surprised, to discover. 

But even if what Iska had said about beauty was wrong, what she’d said about intelligence—that it meant knowing when someone else was smarter than you— _that_ was dead on. And Jim _knew_ Spock was smarter than him. Spock knew it too. 

That’s why Jim was going to win.

Because Spock had been right too; Jim _had_ let Hebe win on purpose. But that didn’t mean Spock knew _how_ good Jim was. That he’d learned when he was a kid, and had always been able to beat Sam, even though Sam was seven years older. Jim used all that to his advantage—his skill and that Spock didn’t know about it—pausing longer than he normally would’ve and prioritizing taking pieces over strategy, knowing it’d fit with the reckless-idiot image Spock had of him.

“Check,” Spock said shortly, plucking Jim’s rook off the board and replacing it with his queen. 

Jim shifted his king to safety, exposing his second rook in a defensive move.

It'd _looked_ like a defensive move anyway. Because when Spock took Jim’s rook, it was _exactly_ what Jim had been hoping he’d do. Jim smirked internally. Apparently Spock had a pugnacious streak of his own, even though he pretended to be so level-headed. Well, Jim had already known he could be baited.

A second later, Spock looked up from the board, blinking in what Jim thought was surprise. _Bastard._

“You will win in two moves,” he said. “I concede.”

Jim hadn’t actually known he was that close. He could see it though—queen takes pawn, pawn takes queen, bishop to A6—and triumph coursed through him. But it wasn’t _enough._

“Nuh uh,” he said, moving his queen to take Spock’s pawn. “I haven’t gotten to say checkmate yet.”

Spock drew his hands back from the board, expression closing. “To continue to play would be pointless as I have conceded.”

“Come on,” Jim prodded. “You’re taking all the fun out of winning. I still don’t think it’s fair you’ve never had to take the _Kobayashi Maru_.” Jim narrowed his eyes. “It’s no fun, huh?”

Spock’s eyes were narrowed too. “You are what my mother would have termed a ‘bad winner.’”

Jim was about to snap back when he realized what Spock had said. He closed his mouth—eyelids fluttering in several rapid blinks as he processed that Spock had just referenced his dead mother.

Heart squeezing with what felt uncomfortably like guilt, Jim picked up a bishop, looking at it instead of Spock. 

He’d never apologized for what he’d said on the bridge that day. What was the point? Saying sorry couldn’t make something like that go away anymore than it could bring Spock’s mom back from the dead.

And anyway, Jim wasn’t sorry. What he’d said had been _necessary_. To wrest the captaincy from Spock and stop Nero—and Jim would say it all again if he had to. He’d say it all again _right now_ if it meant getting them home safe.

Still. Jim wasn’t _proud_ of what he’d said. If the Old Man was anything to go by, Spock hadn’t been exactly stable at the time, and Jim _was_ sorry if he’d made things worse.

If someone said something like that about _his_ mom, Jim probably would’ve wanted to go apeshit too—and even though apologies didn’t mean much in Jim’s opinion, one couldn’t hurt, right? 

_Worth a try anyway_. 

“Look, about what happened that day,” he began, putting down the bishop with a click and gathering the courage to look Spock in the eye. “What I said. It wasn't—” Not sure how to continue—Spock's mom had _died—_ Jim reached out to touch Spock’s knee, trying to communicate his sincerity.

Spock looked down at the hand on his knee, and Jim flinched internally, realizing he’d broken his rule of not touching at the same moment that Spock looked up at him, face hardening.

“I do not require your comfort,” Spock said icily, and Jim jerked his hand away as though he’d been burned. 

The way Spock had said _comfort_ —Jim felt his face drain of color and his heart drop into his stomach. Had Spock thought Jim was...? That he’d been _offering…?_

 _But Jim I like seeing you this w_ —

All at once he couldn’t be in the same room with Spock anymore, and he slid off the bed, scooping up the chessboard and pieces and hurrying out of the room.

Out in the dark hallway, he felt hot and cold at once: his head swelling like one of those smiling, distended faces in an Airhead commercial and his feet walking for him, hands putting down the chessboard without him. The ketamine-high was setting in again, sharp as knife and much heavier this time—like when he’d taken it with klonopin pills, smooth ecstasy a dive off a cliff, world going unreal in the blink of an eye. 

Not sure what to do, he stood in the living room. Vaguely, he knew he couldn’t stay here. That people would notice.

Slowly, he wandered back to the room, high dipping like the nose of his dad’s car. His arms _itched_ all the places he could remember the needle going in.

When he opened the door, the lights were still on and Spock was lying in the bed on the near side, which was his by unspoken agreement. 

Jim pulled off his outer shirt again—and although he was almost never embarrassed about taking off his clothes in front of people, he felt disgusting doing so now, like somehow Spock was lying there, waiting for Jim to have sex with him even though that didn’t even make any _sense_ and—

_Don’t think about it._

Once Jim had gotten into the bed, climbing over the footboard, Spock wordlessly turned out the light.

Facing the wall, Jim stared at it in the dark, feeling disgusting and awful. Probably Spock hadn’t meant it _that_ way, right? But it didn’t matter, because Jim couldn’t get the idea out of his head, making him feel nauseous and wrong. He brought his hand up to his mouth, biting it because he felt pressure building behind his eyes and he was _not_ going to cry. _Not that big a deal,_ he told himself, _it’s not that big a deal, it doesn’t matter if Spock thinks you’re a slut, you are, you’ve always been one, you’ve liked it, it doesn’t matter what he thinks because this is what you are—_

“Your emotional distress is making it difficult to sleep. Please cease indulging in self-pity,” Spock said from beside him.

“Okay,” Jim said. He tried for a few seconds to make his brain go quiet—look _it_ in the eyes and tell it to go away like he had so many times before. But he couldn’t control it. It was always harder to control bad feelings at night, no matter what you did—so he sat up, pushing the covers off and climbed back out of the bed.

Numbly, Jim pushed the door open and stepped outside, shivering instantly but not caring. He walked until he didn’t want to anymore and sat down on a turned over bucket on the far side of the _harel_ paddock and wrapped his arms around knees. Despair was closing in on him now, and even the stars, which were always perfect, untouchable and better than everything that was going on below them seemed further away than usual. Like Jim had never really been among them and that the life he’d had as a captain had been a dream that he was only now realizing wasn’t real. That it had never been his life and never could be. Why would they give _him_ the _Enterprise_ after all?

Deep down inside, part of Jim wanted to go back to the room and ask Spock just to _please_ be nice to him. _Please, I'll do_ _anything_ _you want_. But that was pathetic. Beyond pathetic. Spock would probably just look at him coldly and say something cruel.

“You are behaving like a child,” he heard Spock’s voice say from off to his left as if Jim’s misery had summoned him. _Yes, just like this._

Jim swallowed. “Okay.” 

Spock was probably right. He was right and Jim was wrong, because that’s how it _was._ Why couldn’t Spock just leave him to be pathetic on his own instead of rubbing it in even more? 

“If you remain here you will contract an illness,” Spock said, shifting into the middle of Jim’s vision and blocking his view of the cold stars.

 _Too close_ , Jim’s brain registered, and he tensed, spine against the stable wall, body remembering the hand around his neck, cutting off air. 

_Stop. Acting. Like. A victim_ , Jim thought at himself, lip curling in anger. Without looking at Spock, he got up, walking away around the stable, bare feet burning in the cold damp of the grass.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop Spock from following him.

“Please explain your behavior,” Spock said from behind him.

“You were reading my thoughts, you tell me,” Jim snapped over his shoulder. Spock’s night shirt was bright white in the moonlight and almost as ridiculous as Jim’s bloomers. Honestly, this situation would be dead funny if only it wasn’t so not-funny-at-all.

“I was not reading your thoughts,” Spock said, still following. “I was merely sensing your emotional projections, which were strongly negative.”

“If you can sense my ‘emotional projections’ then you’d know I want you to go away,” Jim said, ducking into the stable, which was a little warmer and full of drowsing _harel_.

Jim heard Spock step in behind him, but didn’t turn around, gripping the tall slats enclosing the pen and trying to control his anger.

Spock spoke into the near-silence, voice flat as ever. “You dislike me, and being in my presence causes you distress.”

 _Close_.

“Wrong,” Jim said, anger a live spark under his skin that he had tenuous control over. “Now leave. I left when you asked.”

Spock let out a breath of air. “No,” his tone was obstinate, and Jim dug his hands into the slats. “You are being illogical. As you have done numerous times before, you are allowing your emotions to dictate your actions. It is distasteful and you will not allow me t—”

Anger, buried _too long_ , blazed in Jim’s body, hotter than a furnace, snapping everything else he was feeling in half. He saw white.

“Why the hell do you think you can talk to me like that?” Jim interrupted, low and furious, turning. The stable was small and they were less than three feet away from each other. “Do you _lie_ , and tell yourself you’re being _logical,_ getting off on using me as your punching bag?”

Spock’s face changed color twice, going green, then white, but Jim was too mad to care. He was beyond caring.

“Or are you just a jerk because you hate yourself and you want everyone else to feel like shit too?” Jim asked, ugly words coming easy. _That’s right, this is who I actually am. Isn’t pretty, is it?_ “Because I’ve been putting up with it for months because I needed help and you’re my first officer. But you know what?” Jim asked. “We’re not on the fucking _Enterprise_ and so I don’t have to take _shit_ from you.”

_And when we get back I might not have a job anymore, so what does it matter?_

“And just for the record,” Jim sneered, stepping even closer, venom burning in his throat. “Back there, I _wasn’t_ offering to have sex with you. I don’t _want_ to have sex with you—you prudish, tyrannical _bitch.”_

Spock had gone eerily still—calm before a storm—and Jim could feel the tension crackle like air before a lightning strike. They were close enough to kiss, and Jim had the crazy urge to do just that.

Would Spock hit him? Choke him?

 _Do I want him to?_

_Actually,_ it flashed through Jim’s mind like the lightning he’d been waiting for, _that’s what I’ve wanted him to do this whole time._

Jim's stomach lurched, shock almost causing him to take a step back. That _wasn't_ what he wanted. Well it _was_ _—_ but that _wasn’t_ what was going to happen.

Deciding, Jim stepped past Spock, their bodies coming so close Jim could feel the heat off him like a breath—and out the door into the night.

Jim went back to the room. He got in the bed, tugging the covers up to his chin and turning to face the wall.

His mind wouldn’t stop whirling.

So. _That’s what I’ve wanted this whole time,_ he kept thinking, a spiteful little refrain.

But it all made sense, in his lightning flash of insight.

And everything looked ugly in that light. How every little moment, this whole time, had been about goading Spock either into snapping and hitting him, or holding him down and fucking him into a mattress. Whichever came first. Something that would be a punishment for both of them and would give Jim control. Maybe not even control. Just something to hold over Spock’s head and torment him with.

And not because Jim liked pain or powerlessness—but for revenge. Revenge because Jim desperately needed Spock to want him, and he didn't. And Jim wanted to make him pay for it. To prove that Spock had no right to judge him because he was just as bad as Jim was. 

But Spock _hadn't_ done anything. Even after everything Jim had said—because Spock was the _good one._

What made matters worse was that Spock had been wrong earlier. Jim _didn’t_ dislike him. Spock made him feel _ashamed,_ and Jim hated that feeling.

Did that mean—? His heart plummeted.

 _Had_ he been offering to have sex with Spock? Before?

He’d _said_ he hadn’t been. He’d even _thought_ he hadn’t been.

But manipulation was a tricky thing. You could get lost in it. And sometimes Jim did things without realizing why till he was in the middle of them. So. Maybe that’s what it had been, then—him touching Spock’s kneeand offering _comfort._

Yeah, that sounded about right. That was what Jim wanted most, after all.

_Fuck._

That meant Spock was right about everything, because _of course_ he was. That Jim was the bad one; a stupid _slut_ who’d just thrown a fit because he’d been accused of being exactly what he was. And now Spock got to be morally superior about it too, because he hadn't hit Jim, and Jim was the bad one.

Outside, the wind had picked up. It cut like a knife against the house, and Jim clenched his hands in the sheets. 

Time passed. Maybe ten minutes, could’ve been half an hour. Jim stewed. He was still awake, and still stewing when at last he heard the door open and Spock step in.

A long minute later, Jim felt the mattress shift as Spock sat down on the end.

An even longer silence began. Jim wasn’t going to be the one to break it, that was for sure. He wasn’t mad anymore. No. His anger had gone cold, hardened into bitter resentment. He wondered if Spock was going to say something. Tell Jim off some more or call him out on his lies. If he did, Jim would pretend to be asleep. He closed his eyes.

“I believe I have treated you with greater harshness than was logical,” Spock said.

Jim’s eyes flew open.

“You think?” he snapped. He could hear the resentment in his own voice.

There was another pause.

“I believe I have done this out of a sense of personal inadequacy,” Spock said, and his voice sounded...off. “As I do not believe that you, yourself are inadequate.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Jim asked.

“You are angry,” Spock said softly—and wow, how could Spock be _this_ dense? “Your anger is justifiable.”

“I don’t care what you think is justifiable and apologies don’t mean shit to me,” he said harshly. “Just fix it.”

Spock stayed silent for a long, long time, and part of Jim wanted to say 'stop indulging in self-pity' like Spock had said to him. But Jim was tired of being mean, and when he eventually lifted his head, he saw that Spock was just sitting there, his hands clasped tightly in his lap and his shoulders hunched.

Pity—fuck, why?—pricked at him. Spock looked sad—actually sad—and Jim _hated_ it when people were sad, and half of him twisted in sympathy. The other half reminded him that whatever Spock was feeling right now, Jim had no guarantee that Spock wouldn’t bite his head off if Jim tried to be nice, or that he wouldn't go back to hating Jim tomorrow. That meant Jim needed to use this, right now, to his advantage.

“Look,” Jim said in a marginally gentler tone. “If you stop being a dick to me, I’ll stop being a dick to you. That’s how I work. It’s not complicated.” There. An olive branch.

But Spock still wasn’t moving.

“I apologize for being a—the word you used,” Spock said, very very quietly.

Jim closed his eyes. _Fuck,_ he hated sad. His mom’d been sad a lot. It was making it harder to think straight. He wanted to touch Spock. Rub his shoulder, sit next to him, hug him and be comforting. Jim’s mom had always stopped crying if he hugged her long enough. But the memory of shame— _hand on the knee, cold hatred in Spock’s eyes_ —from earlier in the evening squashed that impulse fast.

Jim needed to focus—use this. If he could say the right thing now, leverage whatever misplaced guilt Spock was feeling, he could salvage a something. Get Spock to stop criticizing him, and not to write that excoriating character eval. That was what was important.

_Right._

“Okay,” Jim said in a level voice. “Apology accepted. I'm sorry too. Now can we please go to sleep?” 

All of these were easy words to say—it didn’t matter if they were true—and part of Jim wanted to say more, be nicer. But if he did, Spock would get mad at him again. Being too nice had been his mistake earlier this evening.

Sure enough, he watched Spock nod, real slow. Feeling conscience-stricken, Jim turned his head back to face the wall so he wouldn’t have to see. A few moments later, the bed creaked, and he felt the covers lift. He could feel the cold radiating off Spock, chilling his back.

Fuck—this was hard. Spock always shifted around a lot—he was a batshit crazy sleeper—a fact that Jim usually found totally annoying. But right now Spock was lying totally still, and Jim knew _he_ should be the one apologizing and maybe if he just—

No. Nope. No being nice. Spock would just throw it back in his face.

Jim closed his eyes, listening to the wind outside, moaning like the empty air in a subway tunnel as a train sped away from a station. He tried not to shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: allusion to past drug use, intrusive thoughts, slut-shaming language
> 
> For anyone who wants to check out Jim and Spock's chess game, it was inspired by an irl famous one called [“The Peruvian Immortal”](https://www.chessgames.com/perl/chessgame?gid=1264050) (it’s fascinating & the comments section is hilarious—somebody wrote "Something's Boden ill for Black," which is So funny bc white wins with Boden's mate ohmygodchessjokes). 
> 
> Also, I keep trying to draw ugly spock, but I don't think I've gotten it right yet 😔


	8. Prickly Pear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful drawing of Jim and Spock!

_How many Starfleet Officers does it take to make one bed?_ Jim wondered as he kneeled, fitting the sheet around a corner of the mattress. 

_More than you'd think._

Jim cursed under his breath as the sheet refused to behave yet again.

Spock, who was busy at the opposite corner, raised an eyebrow.

Jim smiled back sheepishly.

This was a new development.

Ever since their fight two days ago, he and Spock had been on—well, Jim didn’t want to count chickens before they hatched—but it _seemed_ like better terms. They hadn't spoken much _—_ too busy with chores, Jim too tuckered out in the evenings to say much more than “Mmff,” when he flopped into bed.

But Spock _had_ nodded to him when he’d joined the family for lunch two days in a row. _And_ again when they’d met eyes accidentally while Jim had been hanging wet clothes on the laundry lines earlier today. 

That wasn’t all. Yesterday, Jim had mumbled “Night Spock,” into his pillow, and Spock had actually said “Goodnight Captain,” in reply. Stiff as ever, but it'd been all Jim could do to turn over and _stare_ at him.

Jim had no idea what to make of it. 

He wanted to believe it was progress—but it was impossible to tell with Spock. For all Jim knew, this shaky armistice could just be a temporary ceasefire, brought on because neither of them wanted another shouting match. They'd been at odds for the last five months, and Spock could go back to hating him at any moment. So Jim knew he had to make the most of this.

He was trying to be careful. Play the long con. Which was hard. His brain was clamoring _—_ telling him that this was his _chance_ to really turn things around, that if he could _just_ say or do the right thing he could finally get Spock to stop being mean to him for good.

...Jim knew that meant he was a sucker. Careful it was.

Today had been another laundry day, so once again the house had been stripped of linen, the ordeal of washing and drying taking most of the day. Which was why Jim had sore arms, smelled like soap, and currently, why he and Spock were bed making.

They were being very efficient about it. Like it was a mission. Jim had gotten two corners, Spock had gotten the other two, each of them hoisting one side of the top-sheet like they were playing a parachute game. It _was_ funny, Jim thought, how good they’d gotten at moving around each other, even in tight quarters. They’d always had a kind of—well, _symmetry_ —but after almost two weeks of living in each other’s pockets, they had it down to a science. 

Jim could probably write a book called ‘Making Beds and Influencing People,’ he thought wryly.

Soon, all that was left to do was get the duvet into its handmade ticking cover. Jim took over that one.

“What?” he asked, voice muffled because he was most of the way inside the slip-cover, surrounded by heavy, striped fabric. He’d heard Spock make what sounded like a huff.

“Surely there is a more efficient way to complete this task?” Spock’s voice wasn’t cold, Jim decided. Just blunt and inquisitive. He could work with that.

“This is literally the only way to do it,” Jim said, pulling his head out. He smiled. “Unless you wanna try.” Jim raised his eyebrows, smile ticking upwards.

“No, thank you,” Spock said, shaking his head. 

“Right,” Jim said, sticking his head back into the cover, which he soon had aligned with the corners of the duvet.

"Captain," Spock said while Jim said while still inside the cover.

"Yeah?" Jim asked, focused on what he was doing.

"Do you wish to play chess again?"

Jim's eyes widened and for a few seconds he was sure he'd misheard. Spock wanted to play _chess_ again? After _last time?_

"Sure," he heard himself say in a surprisingly normal voice. He was still mostly sure he was imagining things, and it was a bad idea anyway, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to play chess with Spock again.

“Very well,” Spock said.

Jim heard the door open, and a snatch of a nursery rhyme that Margit and Hebe were chanting drifted in, accompanied by a steady thumping—probably a jump-rope game.

Jim heard the door shut and Spock’s footsteps leave the room—hopefully to get the chessboard, although he couldn’t be sure since Spock wasn’t exactly chatty about why he did things.

Getting himself out of the slip-cover, Jim dusted himself off. His hair felt charged with static electricity, and it shocked him when he instinctively tried to pat it down. Okay, so yeah, maybe Spock had a point about humans being dumb.

A moment later, the door opened again and Spock came back into the room, indeed carrying the chess board, door closing behind him.

By unspoken agreement, they sat on the bed, Jim criss-cross-applesauce against the wall and Spock against the headboard, Jim following Spock’s lead when he got under the blankets. The room was probably too cold for any other arrangement.

 _We’ve made our bed,_ Jim thought, getting a kick out of his own joke. _Now we have to lie in it._ He didn’t say anything out loud though. Spock’s sense of humor was somewhere between fickle and non-existent he was pretty sure.

This game was quicker-paced and more bloodthirsty than the last had been. There was no point in Jim faking being worse than he was—you only got to use that trick once, usually—so he didn’t pause as long between moves as he had last time.

If Spock noticed, he didn’t comment. Not bringing up their last chess match was probably for the best. Not talking too much was probably for the best as well, since it would likely only reveal how little they had to talk about. 

“Rematch,” Jim said when Spock won. 

Spock nodded, already setting up the pieces. 

“Where’d you learn to play?” Jim asked once they’d started again. A factual question that wouldn’t be too personal: boring and safe, and wouldn’t lead anywhere dangerous.

“Chess is taught in Vulcan schools,” Spock said, moving his bishop into a more threatening position. 

“A human game?” Jim asked, too surprised to think about how his question might land.

Spock didn’t seem to notice. “Yes. It is believed to be a suitable way for young children to practice their logic.”

“That’s sort of ironic,” Jim said, using his crow-knight to take one of Spock’s pawns. This could be touchy territory, and Jim surreptitiously glanced at Spock to see if he was offended. His eyes looked mellow though—thank god—his oddly-proportioned face intent, wine yellow in the lamp light. 

He had freckles, Jim noticed. Probably from being out in the sun. They were golden brown, speckling his nose and cheeks so at first Jim had thought they were a smear of dirt.

“As a child I thought so as well,” Spock said, using his bishop to block a strategy Jim had been building with his rooks without realizing it.

 _Jeez_ , Jim thought, wrinkling his nose. Imagining Spock as a kid was weird. God, Spock as a teenager—that was somehow even weirder. A lot of questions came to mind, but Jim decided not to ask them. _Long con_ , he reminded himself, focusing back on the game. _Like boiling a lobster_. A snooty lobster who you wanted to write a not career-ending eval of you. That was all he needed.

“Where did you learn?” Spock asked several minutes later, breaking Jim out of his lobster-filled schemes.

“Hm? Oh, I played against my brother.” Jim’s voice was casual and dismissive. Spock didn’t need to know about how many hours he’d spent playing against the computer, bored and obsessed because his brain unraveled without something to do.

“Is your sibling older or younger than yourself?”

Jim looked up sharply. Another question. What did Spock want? His first instinct was to say _‘Guess,’_ tilt his head, and smile in a flirty way to divert the conversation. But that was a bad idea. He needed this to work.

“Sam’s seven years older,” he said instead, looking back down at the board. “He’s a research biologist on Deneva. Apparently,” Jim moved a knight, “it’s got cool plants.”

“Indeed,” Spock said, a gleam in his eyes as he offed one of Jim’s castles. “I have read several studies of the flora there, and it is singularly fascinating.” 

“Oh?” 

Spock glanced up at him. For a second, his too-big irises made him look like a deer. Curious and inquisitive. Maybe even... _shy_.

 _Impossible,_ Jim reminded himself, giving Spock one of his best angles as he smiled. He didn’t even have to fake the expression. Plants, he could give or take. He just wanted to see what Spock would do.

Spock’s gaze slid back to the game.

“The native horticulture in particular…” Spock began as he looked back at the board, switching into what Jim recognized as his professor voice, having heard it when he’d watched snippets of Spock lecturing when he’d been doing his opposition-research. 

Grinning inwardly, Jim nodded thoughtfully and asked a question or two, feeling lighter than he had in ages. Considering his next move, he ran his tongue over his teeth absently, tasting the faint residue of the fruit Iska had given him today—pulpy and sweet like a custard apple.

Spock won their second game too, but Jim didn’t care. For once, he hadn’t been playing to win. Not at chess anyway.

“Night Spock,” he said, face in his pillow.

“Goodnight Captain,” Spock replied, turning off the light.


	9. Birds of a Feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta, to [@missescargotpudding](https://missescargotpudding.tumblr.com) for the drawing of Spock in orange suspenders, to [@khamomealtea](https://khamomealtea.tumblr.com/post/613131943295533056/oyeeeee-im-art-rusty-but-i-had-to-draw-out-this) for the wonderful illustration of Jim and Spock in pink and to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the drawing of Iska and Jim fixing the stove! (all displayed below).
> 
> Still working on my ugly Spock. If anyone would like to draw him, I'd love to see interpretations 👀👀 (my greed is huge 😔😔)  
> Warnings in endnotes

It was inadvertent, but it changed things.

You couldn’t live cheek to jowl with someone, Jim realized afterwards, and not expect them to discover at least some of your secrets.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

“Hey! Jim!” Hebe said, grabbing his arm and pulling it. “The stove isn’t working right and I’m hungry.”

It was day eighteen and Jim was returning to the house, having just helped Oqchr and Margit herd the _harel_ back into their paddock for the night.

And a good thing too, in Jim's opinion. The last week had brought a spate of particularly cold days, and Iska had been keeping the _harel_ in the house overnight to preserve heat. 

It was a good idea in theory, but several mornings in a row Jim had been woken by four to six paws pressing on his chest and a wet, rough tongue licking his face. A tickling sensation which caused Jim to _laugh and squirm like a maniac_ and Spock to glare at him with offended, half-lidded eyes out of his nest of stolen blankets. 

Jim felt bad, but what was he _supposed_ to do? It _tickled_.

“Can’t have that,” Jim said in the present moment, allowing himself to be led into the kitchen where he set down his basket of fruit.

In a few minutes, Jim had his smock on, and was crouched in front of the large, pot-bellied stove: tools and a few parts spread out around him. He’d never fixed a stove like this before, but a lot of old technology operated on similar, fundamental principles and after a bit of tinkering, he had it figured out. There was a problem with the damper, he discovered, the source of which he traced back to a small crack in the pipe it had been built into.

In a moment Jim had gone to get his makeshift putty knife from the shed and whiting he’d need for the putty. And some more soap flakes. Still lurid pink.

Returning with what he needed, Jim first set about cleaning the pipe. You had to, otherwise the putty wouldn’t adhere—too much soot and grease.

“Why did you not follow Starfleet’s engineering track?” Spock asked from behind him.

Jim barely avoided starting. As it was he had to unclench his grip on the rag he was holding. _What was that the other day you said about Vulcans not sneaking?_

“A wood stove isn’t exactly a warpcore,” Jim said out loud. He wished he knew what Spock was getting at—was he telling Jim he shouldn’t have been a captain?

“Nevertheless, you clearly have an aptitude for machinery,” Spock said.

Still facing the stove, Jim’s eyes narrowed as he set his cleaning rag to the side. He couldn’t tell if Spock was complimenting him or telling him he was a grease monkey. Yeah, they'd been getting along better in the last few days, but Spock was still _Spock._ A yuppie snob, and not someone Jim could talk really talk to.

“Just a lot of practice,” he deflected. 

_That_ was an understatement.

Before Jim had joined Starfleet he’d been a mechanic, mostly. It was the first thing that’d occurred to him, since he’d already known some from Tarsus. 

After barely graduating high school, he’d gotten out of Riverside almost as soon as the lettering on his diploma had dried: moving from state to state and picking up jobs where he could. Colorado, Michigan, New Mexico, the Catskills. Doing construction on the endless, smoggy Interstate 75 in Tuscola County; hydroelectric power turbines of the Blue Mesa Dam on the Gunnison river which ran brown with pollution; the spaceport in Las Cruses by the _arroyo_ of the dried up Rio Grande; fire towers near Hardenburgh amidst the skeleton remains of boreal forests—fixing the automated machines that did the actual constructing.

Living that way meant not staying anywhere long enough to make friends, where the only options for fun were sex and drugs—neither of which ended up being much fun, it turned out. 

So when Jim had arrived at Starfleet, and Pike shoved the Track Selection form under his nose, he’d looked at the “Engineering” box for a long time. Then he’d looked away. “Command,” looked good. It looked different. He still liked machines, but he didn’t want to work with them all day. Not anymore.

“What about you?” he asked, picking up the putty knife and beginning to spackle the rupture. “You always wanted to do sciences?”

Jim’s question was a shade disingenuous. He knew Spock had been accepted to the VSA. _And_ that Vulcans chose their career tracks when they were six, so it was easy enough to extrapolate. What? He’d done some digging, okay? Maybe a lot of digging. And Vulcans were less tight-lipped about their education system than they were about their culture in general. Logical pride, Jim was sure.

“No,” Spock said. “When I was five, I wished to be a chef.”

Jim almost choked, and his laugh was surprised out of him.

“You’re joking right?” he asked, scraping off the excess putty and turning around. “A chef?”

“Vulcans do not joke,” Spock said. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Ever so slightly. Jim wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seeing it with his own eyes.

Jim couldn’t _help_ smiling. He felt like a 200 Watt lightbulb had blinked on in his chest. “Really? What did you learn h—”

“Stop dawdling,” Hebe said, marching into the room. “Aren’t you done yet?”

Jim rolled his eyes at Spock, still smiling, before turning to Hebe.

“I saw that,” Hebe said. “How come you’re not done? I’m hungr—”

“Hebe, stop being rude,” Margit hissed, following her sister into the kitchen. “Are you finished?” she asked, turning to Jim.

“Maybe if you help me it’ll get done sooner,” Jim said.

Hebe rolled her eyes. “You’re not as tricky as you think you are. Mom uses that one all the time.”

“Yeah? Does it work?” Jim asked, opening the firebox to put some wood in. The putty would dry quicker if the stove was lit anyway.

“N—” Hebe began.

“Yes,” Margit said, stepping discreetly on Hebe’s foot.

“Right," Jim said, putting his hands on his hips. "Then why don't you find me the flintbox, and we can get this show on the road?”

Margit ended up being the one to find said flintbox, and after a minute of Hebe and Margit fighting over who got to start the fire—Hebe won the game of rock-paper-scissors Jim made them play when Margit conceded that actually, Hebe was right, rock _should_ beat paper—it was eventually lit. By this time, Luzdj and Iska had entered the room, Iska setting Ixo down onto the floor to peer over his shoulder.

“I am thanking you,” she said, surreptitiously looking to either side of her. “Oqchr, he is not good at these things,” she whispered.

Together, she and Jim tested the damper, deftly avoiding Hebe, Margit, and Luzdj who by now were all playing their own, much more violent version of rock-paper-scissors.

Clearly more mechanically adept than her husband, Iska opened the damper. Since it controlled whether heat generated by the fire went to the stove or the oven, that should redirect heat away from the oven—and both of them held their hands over to the stovetop to see if it heated up.

“It is working!” Iska said a minute later, just when Jim began to feel a prickle of heat on his palm.

Her exclamation produced a chorus of twitters as the kids crowded around the stove, holding their hands above it to feel the heat.

Even Spock was watching, a step back from everyone else—which was probably why he was the only one who noticed the danger.

One second, everyone was still oohing and ahhing over the heat—and the next several people were shrieking, a child was wailing, and Spock was letting go of Ixo’s hand, wincing as he did so.

What had happened, Jim’s brain supplied a second after the fact, was Ixo—probably too young to understand what was happening—had tried to touch the stove. Spock had pulled his hand away, and in the process, it seemed, burned his own hand.

Iska had already snatched up the wailing Ixo, and Jim turned to Spock. By now, Jim could smell burnt skin, and see that a large patch of green was already blistering Spock's hand. “Here,” Jim said, reacting instinctively and taking Spock’s arm and guiding him out the kitchen door. The pump was just behind the house, and Jim pushed up Spock’s sleeve so it wouldn’t get wet—and _oh_. 

Spock tried to jerk his arm away, but Jim had already seen.

One moment, Jim hadn’t known. And the next he did, his heart stuttering like a fool in his chest as his brain tried to fit this information into everything he knew about the world. 

While Jim just stood there stupidly, Spock was already turning away, sleeve yanked back into place, but Jim _couldn’t_ let him leave.

“No,” he got out, catching Spock’s elbow. “Please don’t go.”

Spock’s back was a rigid, angry contour. Seeing it snapped Jim’s brain back into place. He hadn't expected that, and half of him was crying out with painful, inchoate sympathy. The other half of him knew, instantly, that if he didn’t do damage control, right here, right now, Spock would hate him forever for knowing this. He didn’t want that. He _really_ didn’t want that.

“Don’t go,” he said in a completely different voice than the one he'd used before. “We don’t have to talk about it. Just let me help you with your hand.”

Spock didn’t look at him as he nodded, a tight, small motion. He turned away, pulling his sleeve out of Jim’s hand. 

The kitchen door was still open and noise spilling out. Stepping towards it, Jim reached inside and grabbed the bowl of soapy water he’d been using to clean the stove. He dumped it out, filled the bowl with clean, cold water from the pump, and handed it to Spock.

Spock took it, still not looking at him. 

_He’s had those this whole time_. 

Jim pushed the thought away, watching as Spock dipped his hand into the water, submerging the painful-looking green burn and walking a few paces away, leaning against one of Iska’s raised planting boxes. His shoulders were hunched, Jim saw.

Carefully, Jim joined him, silently leaning against the planter. Inside, Ixo was still sobbing and distantly, Jim registered the heat of the day and the sharp scents of alien herbs tickling his nose. Ignoring all of this, Jim wracked his brains for what to say. He should say something, he was pretty sure. 

In the strong sunlight, Spock’s severe cheekbones and slanted eyebrows stood out in strong relief. He was looking determinedly at the bowl, and his entire body radiated tension. 

Most of all, Jim wanted to touch him. That was his first instinct whenever he wanted to make someone feel better. But a hug would probably be interpreted as come on—Jim wasn't so sure it wouldn't be—and he had to push down the urge to do something stupid.

 _Performance review,_ his brain reminded him heartlessly. _Don’t let this affect you._ That heartlessness was somehow what prodded him into speaking.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jim asked.

“No,” Spock said. He sounded like his old bitchy self, and Jim steeled himself to keep going. 

“Kay, but just so you know, I’m totally not judging you,” Jim said, switching instinctively to airhead mode, the conversational equivalent of a dog rolling over onto its back and proferring its stomach. “Like zero judgement. None, nada, zilch, goose egg, diddly s—”

Spock raised a derisive eyebrow at him and Jim smiled sheepishly. Spock went back looking at his hand, still in the bowl.

“Does your hand hurt?” Jim asked after a moment. Of course it did.

“I thought you had said you would not speak.” Spock sounded grumpy—not in pain, which was good.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jim said, resisting the urge to bump Spock in the side like they were old friends, close enough that Jim could do something like that to tease and distract from the tension.

Just then Iska stepped out into the yard, looking frazzled.

“Ixo is well, thanking to you,” she said to Spock. But then she saw his hand, and her feathers rose in agitation. “Oh, you are hurting. Is there something I can do?”

“I do not require assistance, thank you,” Spock said, looking up. “The burn is superficial.”

Iska looked to Jim for a translation, as she sometimes did when Spock talked (“Your husband is very smart,” she had told him once. “He is knowing many words.”). That at least, Jim could agree with. Spock was smart. Smarter than him he was pretty sure.

“Not too bad,” Jim translated. “He’ll be fine.” As he spoke, he watched Spock out of the corner of his eye, hoping he was right.

“I am thanking you again," Iska said. "And I am making this soup you spoke of to me.”

Her voice brooked no argument, but Jim wasn’t sure what she was talking about. He looked to Spock for an explanation, once Iska, ever practical, had gone back to the kitchen.

“Soup?” Jim asked. He didn’t think they were off the ice yet, but maybe if he could get Spock talking, he’d feel better.

Spock nodded. “One of the vegetables which grows in her garden is similar in flavor to one which grew on Vulcan-that-was.”

Mention of yet another tragedy didn’t so much dampen Jim’s efforts to cheer Spock up—if that’s even what he was doing—as bolster them. No-win scenario? Eat shit. “Uh huh. Which one?”

“You would not have heard of it.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that? How do you know—”

 _“Barkaya,”_ Spock said.

“Okay, fine, I definitely haven’t heard of that.”

Spock gave him a look that said _I-told-you-so,_ as plain as day.

“But I could’ve,” Jim said, smiling innocently.

Spock gave him the side-eye. “It is a vegetable that was grown only in certain, highly specific climate regions, and the soup itself is very difficult to prepare. The chances of you having heard of it were less than,” Spock paused for less than a second. “3%.”

Jim resisted the urge to elbow him in the side. “What? No three decimal places?” 

Spock’s side-eye intensified. “I am awaiting your attempt at the calculation.”

Jim smiled, raising his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding, I’m duly impressed. Just a joke.”

“I was led to believe that among humans, a joke was required to be funny for it to qualify as such."

Jim made a choking sound. “Ouch, Jesus. Tough crowd. My mom always laughed at my jokes, but I guess she was just being nice.”

“As I do not have enough data to contradict this hypothesis, it is a viable possibility.”

“Spock, you were _supposed_ to disagree with me.”

Spock raised an eyebrow: _I see no reason to._

Jim knew it was weird, but he felt tickled pink. Glowing on the inside, like serotonin was slicing through his brain. Maybe it was because he had such low standards for affection—which meant he was pleased with anything. Jim often thought that was his own best quality. 

And at least this was easier to work with than being frozen out. Besides, Jim got a kick out of cutting humor; he _was_ best friends with Bones after all. 

“You’re funny, you know that?” _Mean, but funny._

Spock blinked—but with his nictitating eyelid, so he looked like a confused gecko for a moment.

“I believe,” Spock said slowly, “that you are only the second individual to have expressed that point of view.”

“Well, I hate to break this to you Spock, but that might have something to do with your welcoming personality.” Jim raised his eyebrows. “You know, all those cheerful, sunny vibes you give off. They probably don’t clue people in to your sense of humor.”

Spock’s mouth twitched. Or maybe it didn’t. Jim could’ve sworn he saw a twitch.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jim said, standing up straight. “C’mon. Let’s make sure Iska does your soup right. I’ve heard it’s pretty tricky to make.”

Spock didn’t roll his eyes. But he somehow gave the impression of doing so nonetheless as he stood up to follow Jim back inside.

Feeling thawed out, Jim again resisted the urge to guide him by the elbow, or bump their shoulders. Even he could understand that Spock probably wouldn’t want to be touched right now. Jim got that. Just because his own scars weren’t visible, didn’t mean he couldn’t empathize.

Empathy though, Jim knew, was just a feeling. And just like all other feelings, was one he could manipulate to his advantage. Even if he was the one experiencing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: implied past self-harm (not graphic). And warning for the corona virus. Everybody pls wash your hands!
> 
> Housekeeping: A few readers have said that they refresh AO3 a lot on Thursdays for this story. To avoid the hassle, subscribe w/ button at top of page, and receive an email whenever a chapter is posted! 💛
> 
> You can also subscribe to me as an author via my AO3 profile page to receive an email whenever I post a new story! I love it when people do that :) 
> 
> I'm also [@wingittofreedom](https://wingittofreedom.tumblr.com) on tumblr. I post TSP updates and of Spirk art! If you like this story, following me on tumblr is a great way to interact.


	10. The Birds and the Bees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to bee for the last minute second opinion.  
> Warnings in endnotes

Half a week later, harvest began and everything else was put aside. 

Almost overnight the grain stalks went from green to a deep crimson, and Jim at last understood where red-grain got its name. Instead of cornsilk, the end of each stalk sported small red flowers, and the water was stained the same deep purple as _sot,_ giving off the same sweet, heady smell.

Up to their waists, and sometimes their necks in the deepwater fields with the sun bleaching feathers as well as Jim’s hair, the first day was spent draining the excess water into the river so that the grain could begin drying before it was picked. 

By the end of the day, Jim’s fingernails were purple and everyone smelled like red-grain as they walked wearily home at dusk.

The following morning, they woke to an early mist off the river, all of them tramping out to the muddy fields in work boots and gloves, using curved knives to cut the red-grain from the bending stalks. Small and dark, the mature grain was protected by spiky thorns and was an almost purple-red, reminiscent of wild rice or _teosinte_. 

From their baskets, the cut stalks were transferred to rotating batch-dryers and then laid in the sun to dry on wide sheets. At the end of the work day, the stalks were tied into bunches with twine and then transferred to barns and sheds to continue drying. 

Iska explained that after a week or so, the grain would be dry enough for threshing to begin: the process of separating the grain from the stalks.

“There is a story,” Iska said while they worked in the fields, “that the grain grows red from the hands of the harvesters. When they are not careful of the thorns.”

“Oh?” Jim asked, readying himself for a parable of some kind. Iska was full of sayings and lessons. It reminded Jim of Iowa. Of the folks he’d grown up around, and who probably could’ve traded notes with the Sparrow People: _“Think big thoughts but relish small pleasures,”_ can-do attitudes, and ominous warnings against getting 'la-di-da,' and lotto-winner hubris. 

A lot of that stuff—old memories that he hadn’t realized he still had—had been coming back to Jim out here, while he worked outside. 

_You can take the kid out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the kid_.

“Ew, blood!” Hebe chimed in, obviously getting a kick out of the macabre.

“Yes,” Iska said seriously. “The red-grain colors with our blood, and the water it grows in,” Iska drew a finger down her cheek, “is the pain-crying. And the river,” Iska pointed to where it glinted green behind the fields, “it is time, yes? It takes away the field-water and cleans our valley of tears.” 

“Hey, we have a saying like that too,” Jim realized absently. “Time heals all wounds.” 

Iska bobbed her head, pleased. “Yes. And time, it is needing a—how do you say? A gift?”

“An offering? A sacrifice?” Jim asked, dubious. Here came the crazy-corn god part. It wasn’t too late to be sacrificed, he supposed.

“Yes! Each time the valley is filling in water—” Iska lifted a hand slowly, mimicking rising water levels, “The flooding, it is needing one. _Chihiutil_. Time.” 

Iska made a gesture like casting away and twittered something else in the sparrow-language. “She has red hair, and takes if you do not give. Everyone must give a gift-offering so that they are staying safe when the flooding-waters come. Long ago it was a blood-offering. But now we give our work, and we are well.”

Trying to figure out what she meant, Jim’s mind skipped back involuntarily to something from his childhood.

What Iska was talking about reminded him of _tashlich._

Before Sam had been old enough to babysit, he and Jim had gone to the JCC after school while his mom worked. There, they’d been taught Hebrew songs and stories from the _Torah_ , and nice ladies brought them kasha varnishkes and challah.

The _tashlich_ had happened in early fall. Everyone had crowded outside to a creek, and slices of Wonder bread had been passed around. The nice ladies had told him to tear off pieces and throw them into a creek because it was _Rosh Hashanah,_ and the ritual was symbolic of casting away your sins and getting pure for the new year.

Some of the other kids had eaten the bread and snuck off to hunt crawdads—but Jim had actually done it: dutifully watched the pieces get swept away by the current, desperately hoping that it would work. That it would make him good and clean and better like the ladies said. 

It hadn’t. So Jim had figured out early that that kind of thing was a sham, despite what nice ladies believed. 

What Iska was talking about was the same. Nobody was keeping score. The floodwaters didn’t care that he and Spock hadn't made a sacrifice anymore than the creek in Iowa cared that Jim had.

Not that he'd say any of that to Iska.

She gave him a knowing look, as though she knew what he was thinking. “Your flying-ship,” she said, as though stating the obvious. “It was taken. And then the water brought you to Xochuil. This is good,” she said, nodding and going back to cutting grain.

 _“Harel-wash_ ,” Hebe said, elbowing Jim in the side. “It’s because you didn’t know how to fly right.”

“Rude,” Margit said to Hebe, before turning to her mother and bursting into a distressed stream of sparrow-language. “It’s true—right?”

“A story,” Iska said, winking as she hefted a large basket with her strong arms.

 _“Harel-wash_ ,” Hebe whispered. “I didn’t give up anything and I was fine.”

“You gave up manners,” Margit said haughtily.

“Who wants those?” Hebe asked, flicking her sister with a red-grain stalk.

Stepping to the side to avoid the resulting grudge-match, Jiml looked up, catching sight of Spock who was easily discernible because of his height despite the distance. He was helping Oqchr with the batch-dryer, looking stoic as usual.

Jim... _really_ didn’t understand Spock.

Four days out from the sleeve incident, things between them were as confusing as ever. A new equilibrium of baffling. Not worse, but…Jim’d somehow imagined that if he ever got Spock to _cool it_ —stop harping on him and then freezing him out—it’d be because he’d _figured Spock out._ That he’d found the hack. The right set of keys to press that would produce the desired results.

But Spock still made no sense. Sweet-talk him and he’d just stare at you icily; go batshit on him and suddenly he says _sorry_ and starts cooperating _._

And Jesus Christ _, a Vulcan chef_. Jim would’ve been sure Spock was pulling his leg, except Spock didn’t seem the type.

It hurt Jim’s head to think about. _This_ was why he never spent time trying to figure people out. Normally he just reacted—but Spock wasn’t _like_ most people. He was weirdly complicated under his whole stoic-Vulcan act. He never did what he was supposed to, and that made Jim nervous.

Often, the comparative peace they’d been managing for the last week or so felt balanced on a knife’s edge.

Jim had to stop himself from wincing at the unfortunate turn of phrase.

He was still processing what he’d seen.

For so long, Jim had wanted to get under Spock’s skin. To break his façade of control and get him to show the emotions Jim had known were there since his outburst on the bridge. 

Which was what all the poking and prodding had been about—retaliation mixing with a curiosity that fell somewhere between kicking the hornet’s nest to find out what would happen, and the same sort of desire that had driven him to keep taking the _Kobayashi Maru_ : a search for weaknesses in what appeared to be invulnerable.

So in a way, Jim had finally gotten what he’d wanted. He’d found a place where Spock wasn’t perfect. A distinctly human vulnerability.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. Not the rage and violence he’d seen on the bridge and had been watching for ever since, and Jim wasn’t sure if what he’d seen was better or worse. 

It _did_ make him want to be a little nicer to Spock though. He'd accused Spock of treating him like a punching bag—but in a way, that was how he'd treated Spock sometimes. He felt a bad about that.

Not that seeing old scars actually explained or fixed anything in of itself. Spock was still inscrutable. And batshit. And a snobby, unsociable pain in Jim’s ass.

...which wasn’t to say that he and Jim didn’t have a curious sort of...chemistry. 

Yep. Unexpected, but there it was. In the same intuitive way Jim had known exactly what to say to get Spock to lose it on the bridge—the same way they’d worked so well together on the _Narada_ —there were moments when Jim felt like he just _got_ Spock. Like they really was something to all that stuff Old Spock had said about them being _friends_ in the other universe.

Whatever.

All the warm, fuzzy feelings Jim got whenever Spock talked nice to him—well, nice by Spock’s standards—probably weren’t helping him think straight. Jim a pushover. He'd always loved attention too much to not get distracted by this new source of it. 

And because it was from _Spock._ Which, for whatever reason, made the attention more exciting.

 _That_ was definitely the I’m-stuck-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-and-have-nothing-better-to-think-about stircrazy talking. 

Shrugging to himself, Jim went back to focusing on the red-grain stalks. In his experience ‘why?’ was never as an important a question as ‘how long will it last?’ or ‘what can I do to make it keep happening?’ And since things were going okay for once, all Jim needed to do was not mess it up.

He cut a head of grain and tossed it into his basket. Right. He could manage that.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

What with getting dirty and wet all the time in the fields ( _mud season,_ seriously?) Iska ran out of extra dry clothes by the second day of harvest, so Jim ended up in ones that were way too big.

Jim, who had already resigned himself to looking stupid, accepted the change with forbearance. 

...that was until Jim won too many games of corn hole (tossing bean bags was a big deal in Iowa _and_ the Sparrow planet it seemed) and Hebe staged an ambush in revenge: tying the ends of his sleeves together and pushing him over and then sitting on him with Luzdj and Margit.

Trying not to get stepped on more than necessary, Jim endured it as Hebe and Margit used yarn to tug his hair in tiny pigtails, trying not to yelp in pain whenever Hebe yanked his hair or when a wobbling Ixo tried to join in by jumping on his legs.

From his position on the floor, Jim made eye-contact with a _harel_ that had snuck into the house. 

_You sucker,_ was plainly written in its sarcastic, yellow eyes.

“Enough, please,” Iska clucked as she walked into the room, scooping up the guilty _harel_ and causing her children to scatter, squealing—but not before jumping one last time on Jim’s stomach as he rolled over. He groaned in pain.

“Are you well?” she asked, touching his stomach worriedly as she helped him up. “You are not…?” She touched her own stomach, significantly.

_Oh jeez._

Jim shook his head. No. He was not pregnant with Spock’s baby. Definitely not. For more than one reason.

“Someday? In Xochuil _,_ when there is a marriage-joining,” Iska brought her hands together in a steeple, “children are wanted soon.” 

As Jim tried to think how to respond, Iska seemed to misread his hesitation. Her eyes grew almost comically wide with alarm. “You are knowing how? Of the flower and the eel?” Her voice dropped. “I have explained this to my children. If you are not knowing, then—”

It took Jim’s brain a second to realize that she was offering to give him _The Talk_ , and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cover his face. 

“No—I—we know how it works,” Jim got out. You'd think that he of all people wouldn't be awkward talking about _sex—_ but this was like talking about it with your _mom._

Iska didn't respond verbally, and when Jim risked a glance, he saw that her feathers were shaking with suppressed laughter.

Now he really did cover his face with his hands. _Jeez._

“Apologies,” she said through the chirping sound of her laugh. Her voice steadied, sounding very kind. “If children come, I am thinking you will be a good parent.” She nodded at the kitchen, where Spock was, presumably. “And he as well.”

Iska patted Jim's head, and embarrassed gratitude soaked through him like butter melting into bread. No one had ever told him he would be a good parent before. He’d never even thought about being a dad—other than making goddamn sure he never got anybody pregnant.

“Thank you,” Jim said, pushing the feelings away. He knew she was only saying that to be nice. Jim knew he wasn’t great with kids, and Iska was missing some essential facts of the matter. He was probably the _last_ person who would be good at being a dad.

As he watched, Oqchr stepped into the house, and Iska stood, greeting him by pressing their cheeks together, their feathers ruffling as they did so. It was like seeing birds preen, a more intimate version of the sparrow kisses he’d seen so far. Jim had never really seen parents together like that.

Realizing he was staring, Jim looked away, feeling a hollow pang in his chest. The closeness of it had been so _poignant_ , and Jim recognized the feeling in his chest as longing.

 _/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

A while later, Jim was hurrying to get back inside after feeding overripe fruit to the _harel_. He’d just thrown the peels in the midden behind in the house, and his hands smelled like cactus fruit, distinct from the scent of drying grain that had pervaded every other nook and cranny. 

In the near distance he could see the bend of the river gleaming in the fading light. Old birds in knit sweaters were bringing their fishing boats to shore, and on an adjacent hill, Jim could see a group of children driving a flock of _harel_ into a house. Smoke billowed from several chimneys. 

It was beautiful here. Jim could admit that to himself—but it was chilly, and he wanted to be indoors.

Coming around the house, he was greeted by a sight that made him forget everything else.

Spock was standing, waist-deep in Iska’s children, all of them clamoring loudly for him to do something. What that was Jim found out in a moment, as slack-jawed, he watched as Spock lifted Luzdj into his arms— _and threw him into the sky._

“My turn!” Margit chirped while Luzdj fluttered down, a small silhouette in the dusk air.

“You have to wait your turn if you want Spock to throw you,” Hebe informed Jim. Jim blinked. He looked at Spock again, as though looking at Spock would answer any of the gazzillion questions running through his mind. Primarily, _what the heck?_

Margit was tossed into the air, her body sailing almost twenty feet up, above the tops of the leaning yellow trees, giggling all the way down. Spock caught sight of Jim and nodded to him. Jim was too preoccupied to nod back, searching Spock’s expression for an elusive explanation.

Ixo began pulling at Spock’s trouser leg, whimpering pathetically. Spock bent to pick him up, and Jim noticed he was being careful of his still bandaged hand. Jim had tried to tell him he probably shouldn't be working while it healed, but Spock had insisted he was fine:

"I am capable of functioning adequately."

"Oh yeah? Well _I'm_ the Captain."

"Nevertheless, _Captain_ , I am better informed of my own health than you are, and I assure you that manual labor will not cause further damage."

Not believing him, Jim had just glared and then gone behind his back and asked Iska to make sure Spock only got one-handed tasks. Spock was a stubborn fuck, and Jim was all about the path of least resistance, even if it meant Spock believing he'd won.

“He doesn’t like to get thrown very high, or fall all the way to the ground,” Luzdj informed Spock. “He just doesn’t want to be left out.”

Spock nodded, balancing the toddler on one hip. Jim saw his mouth move. He didn’t catch what Spock said—but he could've sworn it was in the sparrow-language. In response, Ixo fluffed his feathers in excitement and chirped.

Nodding solemnly, Spock tossed him gently into the air, allowing him to fall for about two feet before catching him.

Baffled, Jim leaned against the wall to watch, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. By the time Spock looked over at him again, the smile had grown crooked and amused. Jim was feeling very superior that Spock, and not he was having to entertain the kids.

That was until Spock said, oh, so snarkily, “Captain, I am not sure your hairstyle is regulation.” 

Touching his hair, Jim realized it was still in pigtails. _Jeez,_ why did it have to feel so good when Spock _teased_ him like that? _Stupid_. 

Jim was about to pull them out when he saw Hebe glaring at him as she was deadlifted by Spock. “Take them out and I’ll bite you,” she said to Jim, and he lowered his hand quickly.

Lingering to watch, Jim had stayed for several minutes, telling himself he just wanted to snicker at his snob of a first officer tossing madly laughing children into the air. 

But that wasn’t it. They all just looked like they were having so much fun—well, not Spock, who the hell knew with him—but it almost made Jim wish he could join in somehow. At this thought, Iska’s earlier words went through his head without permission. ( _You’d be a good parent. So would he.)_

Jim firmly told himself to stop being such an idiot. 

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Several hours later, over a game of chess in their room, Jim caught Spock eyeing his hair again and glared.

“Do you intend to sleep this way?” Spock asked—too innocently, Jim thought. He was getting better at telling when Spock was joking. Spock had two moods, it seemed. Blank coldness and sarcasm. Jim preferred the sarcasm. _That_ was an understatement.

“She said she’d _bite_ me,” Jim said, glancing at the door. He probably should’ve been quieter because:

“I heard that!” Hebe said from down the hallway. There was a pattering of feet, that stopped abruptly outside their door.

“You’re not kissing, right?” Hebe asked. Jim grimaced, purposely avoiding looking at Spock. “Better stop, ‘cause it’s gross and I don’t wanna see it.”

“Hebe, you can’t just go into people’s rooms,” Margit hissed, following Hebe into their room when she pushed the door open.

“And no gooey eyes either,” Hebe said, marching in and hopping onto the bed. “Those are gross too.”

“Yuck,” Luzdj agreed from the doorway, carrying Ixo. He came into the room too, setting Ixo down by the bed.

“Who’s winning?” Margit asked, leaning her elbows against the bed and staring at their chess game.

“Jim is,” Spock said.

Jim almost gaped. Spock had never said his name before. Not since the _Narada_ anyway. Probably, his brain supplied, it was because Spock wanted to avoid lying, even implicitly, by using _‘she.’_

“No way,” Hebe said, climbing halfway onto Jim’s lap to see, elbowing him in the chin in the process. _Ouch._ “You must be really terrible,” she said to Spock.

Ixo made a sad little cooing noise, tugging at the sheets because he was too short to get onto the bed. Jim watched, desire to gape renewed as Spock lifted him onto the bed. Ixo promptly climbed into Spock’s lap and cooed again, more happily this time. When their eyes met, Spock blinked at Jim as if to say _‘what are you staring at?’_

At this point, Hebe and Luzdj had taken over their chess game, bickering and doing battle with the pieces.

“Uh oh,” Margit said to Jim, climbing onto the bed and standing on his pillow. “Your head-feathers got messed up.” She started fixing Jim’s hair.

Going totally still, Jim suddenly felt very uncomfortable, too aware of her fingers in his hair. 

Over the weeks, he’d grown used to Hebe whacking him, but that didn’t change the fact that Jim was _uncomfortable_ around children.

 _It’s fine_ , he told himself. _Nothing about his is_ weird. _Nothing about this is_ —

“That move will enable her to take your queen,” Spock said to Luzdj, pointing at the board.

Jim didn’t get it. Spock had a kid in his lap, and another pulling at his shirt—and he yet looked completely at ease—despite the fact that he was supposed to be the Vulcan one. The bad-at-people and not-good-with-physical contact one.

“Hey, no helping,” Hebe squawked. “Jim,” she swatted him. The light blow broke him out of his rising panic. “You’re on my team, and we’d better not lose.” She bared her teeth at him—surprisingly sharp for an avian species—spelling consequences if she weren’t obeyed. 

For a moment, Jim saw a vision of her in a captain’s uniform, and his mind snapped into focus. Chess. He could do that.

Jim started trying to play chess again, and gradually, his alarm faded. Hebe wouldn’t let him touch the pieces, snapping at his hands when they got too close to the board, and Margit kept combing his hair like he was a barbie doll or something, but it was somehow okay. 

Almost...nice.

Predictably, things devolved quickly. When Luzdj accidentally knocked Hebe’s queen off the board, she called sabotage and knocked over _all_ of his pieces. He tried to retaliate by pinching her and she jumped away, cackling and accidentally whacking Jim in the chin again and soon kids were jumping on the bed while Margit was telling them to stop, please, while Jim got kneed several times because he had the dubious honor of being right in the middle.

Spock did nothing to help as Jim tried to separate the jumping children—or at least make sure they didn’t give him a black eye—instead choosing to draw back, _bouncing_ Ixo, and causing the baby to warble contentedly. _Jesus,_ where had Spock _learned_ this stuff? 

The noise brought Iska, who soon had everything under control, apologizing to Jim and Spock as she oversaw the file of sulky children leaving the room. Jim assured her that everything was fine, but she apologized several more times before the door was again closed.

Jim rubbed his jaw absentmindedly where he’d been whacked. “Who won then?” he asked, eyeing the scattered chess pieces.

“I believe we will have to count this game as invalid by reason of,” Spock raised an eyebrow at the mess, “obliteration.”

Jim snickered, already picking up the pieces. “Lucky for you, huh?” Jim asked, since he really had been winning. He was also leading in wins by two games—not that he was keeping track or anything. 

Spock gave him a look that was not a glare or a scowl, yet somehow conveyed the same feeling.

“Wanna go again?” Jim’s smile edged into a smirk. “You know, so you can redeem your honor?” Spock, as he’d discovered, wasn’t so snobby that he wouldn’t jibe back. He almost seemed to _like_ it, oddly enough. And Jim wasn’t one to waste observations.

“As I have previously stated, chess is a matter of honing one’s logic and the identity of the victor is irrelevant,” Spock said, helping put the pieces on the board while getting back under the covers, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing.

Jim smirked inwardly, his chest warming. He didn’t understand how Spock could be so nice to kids and so mean to him, but seeing Spock act that way made Jim _want_ that niceness too.

“Yeah okay, whatever you say,” Jim said, settling back against the wall, grinning. “I’m ready to be put in my place by logic.”

“Based on past behavior, that seems unlikely,” Spock said, already moving his first piece.

“Why Mr. Spock,” Jim said, mock offense belied by his smile. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “Are you telling me people can’t change?” 

“Only if they wish to,” Spock said, glancing up at Jim and then back at the board. A clear _‘stop dawdling,’_ Jim thought—until he saw that Spock’s first move had been to jump his knight forward over his line of pawns. That was usually Jim’s opening move.

 _You nerd_ , Jim thought, not sure which of them he meant.

The 200 Watt lightbulb feeling was coming back, and Jim slid his queen’s pawn forward two spaces, Spock’s usual opening. Spock raised an eyebrow at him, and Jim tried to suppress a smile.

 _I would literally let you do anything to me right now_ , went through Jim’s head, accompanied by a slew of unwelcome, intense and sexually charged images. They were intrusive thoughts—no doubt about it, and Jim had them all the time and he banished them quickly—but their appearance sobered him, and he focused on getting a handle on his warm, happy feelings. 

Just focus on what matters, Jim told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of implied past self-harm, intrusive thoughts (not graphic), brief moment of panic
> 
> Thank you to [@eunyisadoran](https://eunyisadoran.tumblr.com/post/190987703350/summerofspock-wingittofreedom) for the beautiful painting of the sparrow world. 
> 
> With so many people in quarantine, this is a trying time. I hope you all are doing well 💛💛


	11. Antiguo Cielo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [@madeofmydreams](https://madeofmydreams.tumblr.com) for a helpful suggestion.

Jim was sitting on the couch, darning a stocking. He was using a parachute-ranger stitch he'd learned in a Starfleet survival course, and he was kinda proud of himself for having thought of it.

It was the fifth day of harvest and he was pleasantly tired. It was dark outside and he could hear Hebe shrieking about something in the distance. A _harel_ had begun twisting around his legs like a cat, and fruit peels curled on the stool sitting next to him—remnants of another of Iska’s after dinner gifts.

She’d been giving him extra fruits every day, and Jim was becoming increasingly grateful. The Sparrow People were hardy, and meals were by no means skimpy, but now that he’d adjusted to the food here, his appetite had improved and his metabolism had kicked back into gear—which meant he was hungry _all_ the time, and Iska’s gifts were welcome. Jim was pretty sure she thought he was pregnant, and had therefore taken it upon herself to feed him, but he wasn't going to correct her.

“Your husband, have you seen him?” Iska asked, leaning her head in from the kitchen. Steam billowed out with her, and Jim smelled the sharp, herbal tea she always seemed to be steeping.

Jim shook his head. He’d thought Spock had been helping her in the kitchen.

“For him,” Iska said, bustling over and handing Jim a cup of tea. She winked before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Blinking at the cup for a moment, Jim set his task aside, wrapping his blanket around him as he got up. 

He’d expected to find that Spock had snuck off to meditate somewhere (Jim had walked in on him doing it a couple times by now). But after a few minutes of searching, Jim discovered that Spock was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in their room or with Oqchr and the kids.

It was too cold for him to be outside, but there was nowhere else to check.

The night was huge. Jim clutched the cup close to his chest for the heat. In the absence of light pollution, the stars were a thousand times more numerous than they were on Earth, and to the east, the moon had risen, looking like a cat's eye, green, like in that Neruda poem Jim had been made to read in high school English and hadn't understood. Something about the ancient sky? 

Circling the house, Jim was surprised, and then not surprised, when he caught sight of Spock: standing in the grass just past the last laundry line next to a copse of trees, hard to see because of how still he was. His hands were clasped behind his back and his only movement came from when his inky hair was disturbed by the night breeze. He was looking up at something in the sky.

Jim approached carefully, leery of disturbing him. 

“Hey,” he said in his friendliest voice. Spock looked round. “What’s up?”

“You will have to be more specific,” Spock said, looking away again.

“Okay,” Jim said, rolling his eyes but secretly relieved that he hadn’t immediately been told to beat it. “For what _logical_ reason are you freezing your ass off out here?” 

Before Spock could say something cutting, Jim sidled up next to him and passed him the cup of tea. “Here, Iska gave me this for you,” he said, carefully making sure their hands didn’t touch. He had a flashback to a similar interaction with the Dhaz’ali diplomat, but the memory seemed dim and far away right now.

Spock accepted the cup with a nod—and then shivered.

Rolling his eyes again, Jim took off his blanket and draped it on Spock’s shoulders.

A strange look lanced across Spock’s face. “Thank you, but that is not necessary,” he said in a monotone, moving to take the blanket off.

“Nuh uh,” Jim said, stepping away. “I know your weakness is cold—you're like Mr. Freeze. And you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing out here?”

Spock’s eyes flicked up to the sky, and Jim followed them there. Peering up at the stars, he waited to see if Spock would explain.

“That,” Spock said after a long moment, lifting his chin towards the sky, “is Vulcan.”

_What?_

Jim’s brow furrowed as his eyes picked out the reddish star—planet?—that Spock had gestured at. It took him several moments to think through what Spock had said before it clicked.

When it did, he looked back at _Vulcan_ , feeling extremely strange. Jim always forgot that it took hundreds or thousands of years for the light from distant planets and stars to reach one another.

...Which meant what they were looking at now was Vulcan of the past. 

Technically, Jim realized, Vulcan would still be visible from a bajillion different points within the galaxy, all of them showing you the planet at different stages in its history.

You could probably even watch it be destroyed over and over again if you wanted to.

“What a mindfuck,” Jim said, before he could think better of it. 

As soon as he had, he cursed internally. God, Spock was going to be mad. Bones was always telling him he was too offhand about painful shit—joking made it easier—but Spock probably wasn’t like that, he probably—

“The programming language?” Spock asked. 

“No, that’s Brainf—” Jim had been going to say _Brainfuck—_ the name of a minimalist computer programing language—but he cut himself off when he caught the arch look on Spock’s face. Spock _knew_ the right name, but he’d _pretended_ not to.

“Hey!" Jim said, indignation masking the buzz he got from Spock, at least tacitly, acknowledging he knew the word ‘fuck.’ "I thought you said Vulcans couldn’t lie.”

Spock took an equanimical sip of his tea. “They do not." He definitely sounded smug. "However _implying_ , as I was recently told by one much older than myself, is a separate matter.”

Jim made an amused, exasperated sound, feeling warmer despite the cold. 

He looked back up at the night sky. It was blue-black, and dappled with stars like the hindquarters of an Appaloosa. 

Jim knew what Spock was doing of course. _Deflecting_ was easy to recognize if you did it as often as Jim. Vulcan still gleamed in the sky above them, and although Spock’s voice was even, Jim knew he couldn’t have forgotten any more than he had. 

What exactly Spock was feeling, he didn’t know. The only thing Jim could compare Vulcan’s destruction to was Tarsus, a similarly insane, unnecessary loss of life on a grand scale. 

But that was different. Tarsus hadn’t been his home and humans hadn’t become an _endangered species_ afterward.

After Tarsus Jim had just felt...empty. Like everything was over and nothing good could ever happen again. Sometimes that feeling came back, and he wondered if anything good ever _had_ happened, or if it was all just more empty nothingness.

Was that what Spock was feeling?

At least what had happened on Tarsus made some sense. Twisted though his reasoning had been, Kodos' bad decisions required the context of a planet-wide crisis.

What Nero had done was straight up batshit. 

...And although that kind of unprovoked destruction would've been horrible no matter who it happened to, it happening in a time of peace to a _planet of pacifists_ made it all the more wrong and incomprehensible.

Humans, in contrast to Vulcans, had nearly destroyed their world several times over and had long been pushing for aggressive action against Romulus.

But Vulcan hadn’t been like that. One and a half thousand years ago—long before the signing of the _Magna Carta_ or Muhammad’s visions of a peace—Vulcans had already come together and decided that war and waste were illogical.

Sure, they were an annoying, supercilious species—but the fact remained that they were a _peaceful people_. Who'd managed to create a world which had gone for over a thousand years without large-scale global conflicts, refugee crises, or climate disasters.

A galactic anomaly.

Everyone in the Federation knew that, had they wanted to, Vulcan could’ve conquered the rest of the galaxy with ease before anyone else had even gotten close to being warp-capable.

But they hadn’t. Which was probably the only reason the Federation existed.

Jim was a hundred percent sure humans wouldn’t have been that noble.

And now Vulcan was gone.

Still standing next to him, Spock’s chin was tilted towards the night sky. Greenish in the moonlight, his face looked as stern and intelligent as it always did. His upswept eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his hair, Jim noticed, had grown out a bit and was longer than he’d ever seen it before, curling ever so slightly around his pointy ears. 

Jim knew what it looked like messed up around his face in the morning—which was an odd thing to know about a person, especially someone as neat and fastidious as Spock. 

A few seconds later, Spock did an about-face, his steps stiff, from temperature or some other reason. Grown cold without the blanket, Jim followed. Seed-grass caught at his socks, and he walked a tiny bit closer to Spock then he had to, hoping Spock would understand what he was trying to say.

He probably wouldn’t, but Jim hoped all the same.

But being physically close to Spock was weird, Jim thought as he opened the door to the house, holding it open behind him as he stepped inside. It was like...like there was a _pull_ between them. 

Ugh, Jim was _that_ touch starved. He hadn't had sex in forever. They hadn't had enough shore leave, and on the _Enterprise_ the power differential creeped him out too much—which meant sleeping next to _Spock_ was about the raciest thing that'd happened to Jim in months.

_How depressing._

Spock opened the door to their room and Jim followed him inside, cold clinging to his skin. Spock slid a suspender off his shoulder and Jim looked away. Even though it was marginally less humiliating now, he couldn’t help the way his heart picked up—like Pavlov’s dog at the ringing of the bell.

Day twenty six, Jim reminded himself. Another week and a half till they could leave, according to Iska’s initial timeline.

They were getting closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confirmation that Spock knows the word fuck.
> 
> Gentle readers, I hope you all are keeping well in this wild time. Sorry for the short chapter, next week's will be longer and more dramatic.


	12. The River Bank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta!  
> Warnings in endnotes

The second week of harvest was beginning. In Iska’s estimation, in a few more days the threshing could begin in earnest, now that the majority of the grain was stored and dry.

Nothing would be wasted it seemed. The stalks, Iska said, would be beaten into fiber and spun into thread and woven on a backstrap loom into ropes, nets and clothing, while the grain itself would be ground into flour for bread. 

More than half of the grain was set aside though. Iska said that was because it would be sold to the city. 

Her voice was uncharacteristically deprecating as she talked about it, and when Jim asked, she explained that red-grain was the village’s main export. The money it brought in bought better farm equipment, fuel and technology, but Iska said the encouraged people to plant more grain than they needed, which was bad for the soil.

 _/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ /_ _\_

The air was loamy with the smell of wet earth and evaporated dew. Jim had just gotten back to their room, fresh from helping Iska feed overripe fruit and fish bones to the _harel_. Spock was already there, sitting on the bed and looking at the floor.

He looked up when Jim walked in, and when their gazes met, Jim could tell instantly that Spock had _heard_.

_Fuck._

Avoiding Spock’s too-knowing eyes, Jim sat on the floor, going about taking off his shoes and stockings, his back to Spock. He kept having to push his stupid sleeves up—still too big—ignoring his awareness of Spock’s gaze and feeling prickly as hell. _Jesus._ Living so close like this was _not_ an experiment he wanted to repeat.

Earlier that evening they’d all been invited to Iska’s neighbor’s house for dinner, and, in what Jim suspected had been an effort to be polite, he and Spock in particular had been served _a lot_ of food by the neighboring family. Heaping plates, like small mountains of grain and vegetables. So much that when the first one had been set down in front of him, Jim had thought they were supposed to share. More had followed.

Smiling and not wanting to be rude, Jim had dutifully eaten everything, even as his stomach felt more and more uncomfortable. When it'd _finally_ been over and they’d gotten back to Iska’s house, Jim had ducked around the house to the bathroom to throw up.

Spock must have overheard somehow.

“Are you well Captain?” Spock asked.

Jim pushed his sleeves up his arms again, mouth tightening. He didn’t want sympathy. And he knew what Spock thought and Spock was _wrong._

Focusing on his shoelaces, Jim tried to remind himself that he and Spock were getting along, _finally._ He couldn’t get mad right now if he wanted to keep Spock being nice and fear of ruining that kept his voice light.

“I know what you’re thinking but it isn’t that,” Jim said, pulling a shoe off.

“Captain.” Jim steeled himself— _God,_ Spock’s stupid voice. “I realize that you do not wish to discuss this, and that under normal circumstances such a matter would be the purview of Dr. McCoy." Spock's voice was very firm. “However he is currently not present and we have no assurances as to when we will return to the _Enterprise._ Therefore I must insist that we discuss your health.”

Jim felt constricted. He wanted to hunch in on himself, flare up and tell Spock to fuck off.

But he couldn’t _do_ that, his brain reminded him.

Breathing in, Jim looked at the laces of his other shoe, thinking back to how Spock had looked when Jim had seen his arm. The look on his face. _That_ triggered a hit of empathy. There, _this_ was what empathy was good for, Jim thought as the sensation of being cornered dissipated and he unclenched the fist he hadn’t realized he’d made. 

He started pulling at his laces again, getting the second shoe off, focusing on the memory until he was overrun by a softer feeling. One that allowed him to see that Spock was right about needing to ask. Jim knew he would’ve done the exact same thing if their positions were reversed. This didn’t have to be personal. Spock just needed to assess his health.

“I understand where you’re coming from," he said, standing up and turning. "But I’m fine.”

Spock's eyebrows were furrowed, and Jim couldn't tell whether he was being believed. God, he hated not being able to read Spock. This was bad _._ Spock thinking he was unstable wasn't what he wanted. Would he go back to treating Jim like a selfish brat? 

Jim needed to avoid that.

“Really,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not lying. I don’t have an eating disorder—trust me, Bones would literally murder me if I did. That was just,” Jim waved a hand, “being sick.”

Spock was still looking at him with his unreadable expression, and Jim tried not to twitch uncomfortably.

The elephant in the room, of course, was his very real weight loss. He hadn't thrown up on purpose just now, but he was at a loss as to how to prove he was telling the truth. He couldn’t even show Spock his knuckles to prove that they weren’t bulimia scarred because they _were_ scarred—but again, it was impossible to prove that it wasn’t from an eating disorder.

Wait, not totally impossible.

“Why don’t you do one of those mind-hop thingies then,” Jim said, padding over to the bed. “You know.” He held up a hand in the three-fingered shape the Old Man had used. 

Spock's eyes widened, and Jim paused a few feet away, smiling. "You probably don't want to see what's up here though," he said easily, tapping the side of his head. "It's not exactly PG."

Jim watched as Spock’s freckled cheeks went a sallow green. _Huh._ He’d never gotten Spock to blush before, even with all the sleazy crap he’d said. But now wasn't the time to be triumphant, and Jim filed the knowledge away.

“A Vulcan mind meld,” Spock was already saying, “is a very intimate matter. They are generally only performed between family members and bondmates.”

“Oh,” Jim said. He'd had a vague idea, but he hadn’t realized they were _that_ intimate. _Whoops_. “But hang on,” he furrowed his brows, “—you did one on that Romulan guy. On the _Narada._ ”

Spock’s face had gone normal-colored again. Man, he was fast. “Exceptions are made in life or death situations. It was essential that no time was lost if we were to rescue Captain Pike and prevent the destruction of Earth. The needs of the many—”

“Outweigh the needs of the few,” Jim finished absently. “Okay, but what about the old guy? The other you. He did one on me and it was fine.”

It wasn’t until he’d gotten to the end of his thought that Jim realized he’d accidentally quoted Surak. Sheesh. How embarrassing. He’d _maybe_ read some while doing his Spock research, but he didn’t want Spock to _know_ that.

Spock didn’t seem to notice though. “My counterpart melded with you?” he asked sharply. His tone made him sound more like his old self than he had in days.

“He had a lot to tell me,” Jim said, feeling defensive. He liked the old guy. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

It occurred to Jim that this was maybe the longest real conversation they'd ever had that wasn’t Spock telling Jim off. Well, this sort of _was_ that actually. Apparently Jim was a mind-slut too, and he hadn’t even known that was possible until a second ago. _Figured._

Spock’s mouth thinned almost imperceptibly. “As he and your counterpart served together for several decades, it is possible that they melded in the course of duty, although I am uncertain of this. However, his action was still inappropriate.”

“Do you not like him or something?” Jim asked, getting that vibe and wanting to change the subject.

“What are your feelings towards your own counterpart?” Spock asked flatly.

_Oh._

Okay, Jim could understand that. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ his counterpart—he hadn’t even met him, other than what he knew from Old Spock. But he didn’t like the _idea_ of him. Or rather, he liked the idea of that other him too much. Of a James T. Kirk who was better: braver, and kinder, and more competent and who didn’t drive everyone, including his Spock, away. A living reminder of his own, wasted potential.

“Fair enough,” Jim said after a pause. Spock probably had as many reasons to feel weird about his older self as Jim did.

Glancing back up, Jim saw that Spock was still looking at him, and he got the feeling that Spock was expecting him to say something about the eating thing. Man, this conversation had started awkward, and then gotten awkward in several new ways.

“Look,” Jim said. “I know things weren't going so hot back on the _Enterprise._ And I know Bones told you it was your fault—but you can’t listen to everything he says.” The corner of Jim’s mouth ticked up. “Seriously, you’d go crazy in a week if you did. Guy’s a nutcase.”

“A nutcase?”

Jim’s smile grew even more lopsided. He was fond of that nutcase. “Crazy. You’ve noticed that right? He’s paranoid about _everything_ —like, _doesn’t believe in the moon landing_ paranoid,” he said with a slight eye-roll. “I think he likes it.”

“The doctor does seem to have chosen a profession that gives him ample opportunity to complain,” Spock said in a dry voice.

Feeling like a microscope beam had moved off of him, Jim smiled. “Exactly.” He leaned against the backboard, making an expansive gesture. “And don’t forget telling people what to do. Hell will freeze over before he quits reminding me that as CMO he can declare me unfit whenever he ‘damn well pleases,’” Jim said, saying the last three words in a bang-on impression of Bones. The way his mouth cracked into a smile at the end was involuntary.

Spock tilted his head to the side, about to respond when there was a tap at the door.

“Yes?” Jim called out, still smiling.

“May I come in?” Iska asked.

“Sure,” Jim said, brain shifting gears. Was something wrong?

The door opened and Iska bustled in. “I have brought this,” she said, tossing Jim a fruit and then looking at Spock for some reason. Jim caught his fruit, still confused.

“And this,” Iska continued, holding up a book and beaming at Jim. “It is Standard. Oqchr was finding it. You were saying you liked books.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jim said, eyes widening. He got off the bed, stepping towards her reflexively. “What’s it called?”

Instead of answering, Iska handed it to him. Slipping his fruit into his pocket, Jim took it carefully, reading _‘The Wind in the Willows’_ in the big gold font on the spine. The book didn’t have a jacket, and the cloth covering was a faded green, going almost white at the hinges. It was soft, it’s pages deckle-edged, some of which were actually still uncut— _amazing_ —and Jim had the urge to press his nose against it and smell it.

“Where did it come from?” he asked, unconsciously running his index finger over the edge of the binding and wondering how far it must’ve traveled for it to have ended up on the Sparrow World.

“The missionaries left books. This was one, I am thinking.”

“Oh,” Jim said, marveling.

“You may have it,” she said.

Heat rushed to Jim’s face. He’d sort of thought his blushing days were over, but apparently not when it came to books. He blinked, several times, not sure what to say, the blotchy heat spreading to the roots of his hair and up the back of his neck.

“I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Iska said, still beaming as she whisked out of the room.

Still blinking Jim pressed his lips together, looking back down at the book, his insides feeling mushy. He was embarrassed, yes, but he was also tickled pink. _Wind in the Willows_. _Gee willikers._

“What is its title?” Spock asked from behind him and Jim remembered where he was.

 _“Wind in the Willows,”_ he said. He was about to ask if Spock had read it—Jim hadn’t—but then he remembered Spinoza.

_Irrelevant and rather simplistic._

The memory was like a sharp pinch, the kind that woke you up from dreaming, and it brought back all the reasons Jim couldn’t get carried away. Spock was his first officer, first and foremost, and friendliness wasn’t the same as friendship.

Turning, Jim sat down on the edge of the bed, subtly angled away from Spock as he opened the book— _his_ book—running a finger over the table of contents before turning to the chapter one page.

‘THE RIVER BANK,’ read the big, title font. After that, the letters underneath blurred together in Jim’s eyes. Too small for him to read without his glasses. Feeling a prickle of embarrassment, he squinted, holding the book at arms length and tilting it back at the edge of his lap, hoping he’d be able to make out the words at a distance. About three feet away, they came into focus, muddled and mulishly small. Disappointment washed through him. He wouldn't be able to read without getting a headache.

“May I see it?” Spock asked.

“Sure,” Jim said reluctantly. He was filled with an odd shame. Like he was too stupid or lazy to read the book even though that didn’t make sense, and as he handed it to Spock, he felt a frisson of annoyance, afraid that Spock would somehow hurt it.

But Spock handled the book just as carefully as he had, despite his bandaged hand, reading the spine before he opened it to the first page.

Unable to resist, Jim sidled up beside him, peering at the letters again. He couldn’t quite read them without screwing up his eyes, but it was comforting to know they were there.

“Do you wish for me to read aloud?” Spock asked without looking up from the page.

Jim’s heart stopped. Then it picked up again, thudding hard in his chest, the whole world reshaping itself as his chest filled with some unknown emotion, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Spock was still looking down at the book, casually, like he didn’t understand the magnitude of what he’d just offered. Jim should say no, he knew. He should laugh and say ‘thanks, I’m okay,’ because if he didn’t Spock would be doing him a favor, Jim would lose the element of guilt, which might be what was keeping Spock being nice to him, he’d lose—

“Yes,” Jim said. His voice sounded normal, which was surprising.

“Very well,” Spock said, propping the book on his knees.

“Wait, hang on,” Jim said. Spock was in his nightshirt already, and Jim didn’t want to get any dirt from outside under the covers, but it was also too cold not to be under them. Like a shot, Jim was off the bed, tugging off his shirt and trousers. He did this every day, often in front of Spock, but right now, it felt newly vulnerable for some reason. 

Remembering his fruit, Jim retrieved from the pocket, and in a flash, Jim was back on the bed, this time under the covers. He lay down and pulled them up to his chin. “Okay,” he said, looking up at Spock from the pillow, that strange emotion still squeezing his heart. He shoved a bite of fruit in his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else. But then had to wipe juice off when it dribbled down his cheek. It was the kind with skin like a peach, dusky orange and soft like _zapote_ on the inside.

Spock nodded, eyes going back to the book. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning…”

Jim’s vision went blurry again.

Spock was _reading_ to him.

He couldn’t believe it. But he _had_ to after a minute, as Spock kept reading, about the Mole spring-cleaning his house and about his friend Rat, boating down the river.

By the time a _harel_ nosed its way into the room and leapt onto the bed, snuggling into Jim’s side, he was boneless and warm, feeling full and mouth tasting sweet from his fruit, serotonin licking his brain. He was smiling without knowing why. Spock’s pronunciation was perfect, his calm, sophisticated voice measured and precise around each word. 

_“...as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before...”_

Jim blinked sleepily. Suffused by the kind light of the lamp, Spock's plain, austere face looked softer than usual, Jim thought, looking up at Spock through his lashes. The severe angles of his cheekbones and nose were rounded by a trick of illumination and his freckles and solemn, brown-black eyes made him look almost…human.

Closing his eyes, Jim focused on Spock's voice. He felt like he was remembering something that had never happened before, and his mind suggested memories of the way Spock narrated what he was doing as he did Jim’s paperwork.

But this was a good something, and Jim dismissed the impression.

He took the last bite of his fruit, swallowing before licking his sticky bottom lip, feeling the press of the two flat seeds in his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of weight loss/vomiting, discussion of eating disorders, use of a sex shaming word
> 
> Thank you to [@madisonsaferillustration](https://madisonsaferillustration.tumblr.com/) for letting me display her drawing of a Wind and the Willows cover, please check out her work, it's beautiful.  
> .  
> 


	13. Wonder Bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to choose the same day of the week to publish as The Magnus Archives, but that's just what happened
> 
> sorry for the late post guys! I wish i had a really good excuse, but honestly i was just making flatbread and lentil soup and got carried away.
> 
> Thanks to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta!

Today was the last day of harvest. Their thirty first day on the sparrow planet. 

Jim’s basket was as full as it was going to get, so he hefted it, turning round and heading for the row of batch-dryers on the far side of the field. 

His eyes quickly picked out Spock, who was stationed among them, using a crank to spin a heavy metal cylinder that shucked excess water off the grain. Behind him, sparrow-women were laying the partially dried grain on sheets to dry out the rest of the way, occasionally stealing glances at Spock and whispering amongst themselves.

Standing there, Spock looked tall and surprisingly well-built for all he was a beanpole, and for a moment Jim could _almost_ understand why all the sparrow-women looked at him so much—plain as he was.

“Hey,” Jim said as he drew up, taking his basket off his back. Spock nodded to him, stopping his movements— _how were his arms not tired?_ —and Jim couldn’t help the big, bright feeling that unspooled in his chest. 

Ever since _The Wind in the Willows_ , that feeling had been happening to him practically whenever he saw Spock. During the quiet conversations they’d been having in the evenings, on the way home from the fields or during lunch; side by side or across a chess board.

Before, Jim had felt on edge constantly. Like if he messed up and reminded Spock how dumb he was by comparison, Spock would start snubbing him again.

But that hadn't happened. They’d been talking for about three weeks now (it felt like it had been much longer than that), and it’d been almost five days since _Wind in the Willows,_ and it _still_ hadn’t happened.

Jim wasn’t sure what gave, but he wasn’t about to ruin a good thing. He was still worried he’d slip up—say something wrong or stupid, or make a sleazy joke that would ruin everything—but so far he hadn’t, and Jim was beginning to think he could keep it up indefinitely. 

Often they discussed the _Enterprise,_ which seemed to occupy Spock’s thoughts as much or almost as much as it did Jim’s. 

Consciously or not, they both avoided talking about the near future—if Spock was planning to transfer, Jim didn’t want to know, and not being sure if he’d be fired made it a painful subject for Jim—but they _did_ find out that they had surprisingly similar ideas about what sort of assignments they’d like. Both of them wanted exploratory ones, particularly ones in uncharted regions of space. 

To Jim’s further surprise, somewhere along the line they’d started talking about other things too. Cautious small talk and safe subjects like the time they’d both spent at the Academy; shared professors and people back on the _Enterprise_ ; or their observations about the Sparrow People. 

Once or twice Jim even caught himself speaking without trying to calculate the effect he was having, gesturing with his hands and saying things like _don't cha know_ and _you betcha_. He always felt a bit embarrassed about it later, but Spock didn't seem to mind. He just took in everything Jim said in that quiet way of his and then asked a question or said something either incisively intelligent or witheringly sarcastic. The other day, Jim had even made a shy allusion to Shakespeare, fully expecting to get shot down—but Spock had just gone with it.

It wasn't _all_ peaches and cream: Jim was curious about a lot of things he wasn't sure he could ask about (what had been so special about Spock's mom? How had his parents even gotten together? What was _dating_ even like on Vulcan? Had _Spock_ dated? What did Vulcans think about sex?) and the day before yesterday, Jim had made an offhand comment about the handling of a science experiment from a previous mission, and Spock had instantly started correcting him. 

But at the same time that Jim had started reminding himself not to be so sensitive, that it was Spock's job to correct him—Spock had paused mid-sentence of his own accord. 

"I apologize," he'd said quietly.

Confused but appreciative, Jim had felt a strong warmth surge inside him. "No—keep talking. I don't know anything about what happens down in Sciences but I want to."

Saying that had felt vulnerable—Spock could easily chastise him for his ignorance. As captain, he _should_ know these things after all. 

But Spock had just nodded, and then asked what he knew about the specific project. Jim had replied in kind and then Spock had filled in the gaps. He was patient and didn't make Jim feel stupid once, and Jim had felt so good afterwards: like his entire chest was going to explode. Which probably wasn't a health concern.

Back in the present moment, his chest full of the same good feeling, Jim emptied his basket into the dryer. As he did, he noticed how easy it felt to lift, despite how full it was. He’d put on some muscle out here, he was pretty sure, although it was hard to tell since there were no mirrors or scales, and Jim didn’t go around feeling his arms.

Jim gave Spock a parting smile as he headed back to the field, and Spock blinked at him with his nictitating eyelid.

_Now what did that mean?_

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Jim was tired and dripping a bit. It was later the same day, and he was carrying a basket of the wood he’d just chopped for the stove, his hands and face were scrubbed pink with freezing water from the pump outside. Whatever Iska had going on in the kitchen smelled good.

But when Jim stepped in, it was Spock, not Iska, who was standing in front of the stove. In an apron. 

Shaking off his surprise, Jim set his firewood down in a corner before sidling up to peer over the rim of the pot in genuine wonderment. Whatever it was smelled even better up close.

“Whoa, so you really can cook, huh?” he asked. Jim knew how to cook too, of course—he wasn’t a _neanderthal_ —but that didn’t mean he could make anything _good_.

“Evidently,” Spock said, raising an eyebrow. Just this side of derisive, because even though Spock was nicer now, Jim was beginning to see that their relationship would always be a little adversarial.

“You know it’s really not a smart move to mouth off to the person who pays your salary,” Jim said, leaning against a counter and grinning.

“You do not pay my salary,” Spock said as he closed the firebox. “Starfleet does.”

“Yeah okay, but I could make it really hard to get that fancy S.E.M. you put in a request for the science department.”

Spock looked up sharply from the pot of whatever he was making. “That would be unethical.”

Jim smirked. “Nah, it would only be unethical if I were doing it on purpose. If I were just an incompetent captain and the order form kept getting lost—” Jim shrugged “—that’d just be really unfortunate.”

Spock’s expression lost much of its superiority. “You would not.”

Jim spread his hands in a ‘who knows?’ gesture. “Maybe if someone told me what a great captain I am, no one’ll have to find out what I would and wouldn’t do.”

“The enforcement of flattery is emblematic of tyranny,” Spock said flatly. “As is coercion of all kinds.”

Jim’s smirk grew as Spock bent to open the oven door, and he was forcibly reminded of Spock in the same posture in front of the science station.

Straightening, Spock transferred a perfectly round loaf of bread to the counter as Jim looked on with subdued awe. There was still steam rising from it. _Golly,_ he thought before he remembered that he definitely didn’t think things like _‘golly.’_ The bandages had finally come off Spock's hand, revealing a painful green scar.

“I’d settle for you telling me where you learned to do this,” Jim said, gesturing at whatever it was Spock was making on the stove. “Also, I’d help out if you got off your high horse and told me what to do. Since _I’m_ not the bossypants here.”

“Add an equivalent amount of flour to the water in that bowl,” Spock said dictatorially. He was back at the stove, using two spoons to pinch paste into the pot with crisp, mysteriously perfect motions. He pointed with one of the spoons without so much as looking away from his task. “And mix the resulting solution.”

Muttering to himself _,_ Jim did as instructed, rolling up his trailing sleeves and mixing the gritty flour and water solution until it became a ball, which Jim was then told he had to knead, realizing as he did so that he’d been tricked into working more. 

Sighing internally, Jim accepted the apron Spock handed him and began _kneading._ It was surprisingly difficult, requiring concentration and more than a little shoulder muscle. 

It was also really satisfying, Jim found as he settled into his task. And surprisingly pleasant in the warm kitchen. Jim could feel the heat radiate from the stove onto his back, room filling with the smells of bread, cast iron, and soapstone cladding.

 _That’s probably why Spock likes cooking,_ Jim concluded, thinking about how Spock much hated cold.

When Spock had first mentioned that he’d wanted to be a chef as a kid, Jim had thought the idea of Spock liking to cook was completely incongruous. Spock seemed so... _abstemious,_ after all. 

But the more Jim thought about it, the more he found it _did_ make an odd sort of sense.

When he was a kid, his mom had always had subscriptions to cooking magazines—just so she could make fun of 'all that yuppie stuff' she'd said—and Jim had liked to look over her shoulder while she’d flipped through them. Despite making fun, both of them had been in awe of the perfect kitchens and perfect food in the photos: so far fetched and unreal—and way too pristine to match anything Jim had ever seen in real life. _His_ mom’s attempts had always ended in charred wreckage, and either tears or laughter depending on whether she’d had a boyfriend at the time.

But it somehow made sense that Spock would fit in with those pictures.

“My mother often said,” Spock began out of the blue, “that the preparation of food is an act of service of great importance. Whether it is done for oneself or others.” 

“Hmm,” Jim hummed thoughtfully, kneading his dough ball and wondering what the hell Spock was getting at. 

The subject of Spock’s mom was a briar patch he didn’t know how to wade into without getting stabbed in the eye. He wasn’t going to say something like _‘she sounds like an amazing woman,’_ even if she kinda did, because what did that even mean? It’d always pissed him off when people talked about his dad that way. Spock would probably be polite about it, but it wouldn’t make him feel better and there was also a chance he’d tell Jim to fuck off and die.

“She taught me,” Spock said, and Jim realized he was answering Jim’s question from a moment ago—but in the roundabout way he seemed to have about anything personal. 

“She did a good job,” Jim said in a carefully light tone. “Wish she’d taught my mom too.”

Spock gave him a questioning look from over his shoulder.

The corner of Jim’s mouth creased in a tiny, wry smile. “Would’ve saved a lot of innocent pots and pans.”

A small furrow appeared between Spock’s eyebrows and he turned back to the stove. Jim went back to kneading his dough ball. Part of him had been so surprised that Spock would want to talk about his mother with _him,_ that he’d reacted instinctually by trying to redirect the conversation away from a painful subject—and he wasn’t sure if that had been the right thing to do. He usually could tell what people wanted him to say, but with Spock he never could, and he wasn't used to flying blind.

“Replicators have only recently become widespread in civilian homes,” Spock said, facing the stove. “How was sustenance provided in your home?”

“There was maybe a lot of freezer waffles and spaghetti,” Jim said, infusing his voice with pleasantness to make up for it if he’d said the wrong thing. “Those are pretty hard to get wrong.” 

Jim’s mom had been _so_ good at freezer waffles, in fact, that there’d been a few months when they’d eaten them for breakfast, lunch and dinner day in and day out. She’d been in-between jobs and on food-stamps, and Jim was pretty sure she hadn’t realized what she was doing.

Jim had pretended to enjoy everything she made, long after he’d stopped being able to taste it, and it’d only stopped when Sam had caught Jim throwing up and had offered to do the cooking instead. To this day, just the thought of an Eggo was enough to make him shudder.

“In the same meal?” Spock asked, and since he was so hard to read, Jim couldn’t tell if his tone was horrified or fascinated.

“Oh yeah,” Jim said. _Spaghetti on waffles, waffles in spaghetti, waffles in spaghetti with cheez-whiz—_ she’d been on a creative spree that time. 

Jim didn’t say any of that out loud. He didn’t want Spock to get the wrong idea. His mom had sucked at cooking, sure, but she’d always _been there._ Which, for a single mom without a support network, that wasn’t anything short of amazing as far as he was concerned. 

“The longer this conversation continues," Spock said, tugging Jim back to the present, "the more you diminish my lingering hope that you are joking."

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad—one time,” Jim bit his lip for a moment, deciding whether to continue. He didn’t usually talk about his childhood. Or about himself really, if he could help it. _'Never let anyone know more about you than you do about them. Say just enough to keep them interested’_ was practically carved into his brain, and besides, Jim had always preferred inventions and good stories over the truth. A private fantasy that'd always tickled him was spending his entire life lying about everything _—_ and then confessing it all on his deathbed to the shock and horror of posterity. 

But Spock had brought up his _mom_. To Jim.

...And deep down, Jim maybe still wanted to say sorry for what he’d said on the bridge that day, in whatever way he could.

 _You’re too good at keeping secrets_ , Bones always said. _It ain’t good for you_.

“One time,” Jim began, “she took two interplanetary shuttles and an overnight air-taxi ride just to bring me fast food while I was studying for finals. During my first semester.” 

Two sentences. But it was one of Jim’s best memories, and saying it like that out loud to Spock felt like handing him _Wind and the Willows_ all over again. 

It’d happened during that first, hardest semester. Nearly everyone else at the Academy had been to college, and had parents who could at least help them pay for school. Jim had thrown himself into the fast-track and even with scholarships and work-study, he hadn’t had extra money to visit his mom or go out much. 

His mom had showed up at 11PM on a Saturday to bring him McDonalds. She hadn’t been able to take actual time off work—she’d been a personal assistant to this really crabby business lady at the time—and so she’d only been able to spend an hour with him before he’d had to drive her to the shuttle station, but it’d been worth it. Nothing he’d ever eaten had tasted as good as those soggy french fries and the cold cheeseburger, laughing so hard at his mom’s stupid jokes that he’d nearly cried.

“That does not sound like proper nutrition,” Spock said, taking away Jim’s dough ball and putting it in a bowl and covering it. 

Jim snorted because it really hadn’t been, and glad Spock hadn’t said anything mushy because Jim might’ve almost cried all over again. “Yeah, Bones doesn’t think so either.”

“I find that I agree with Dr. McCoy, although this is perhaps the first time I have done so.” 

“One time he dared me to eat a salad,” Jim said, smiling at the memory. “He bet me I couldn’t.”

“Was he incorrect?”

“He’d never heard of jello salad,” Jim said, smile growing oh-so-fond as he remembered Bones’ face when he’d seen all that whipped cream. “It’s only a thing in the Midwest.”

“What are you making?” Luzdj asked, wandering into the kitchen and leaning over the pot. “Red-soup!” he called out loudly and Hebe and Margit somersaulted in.

“Is it done?” Margit asked.

“I think it’s done,” Hebe said, elbowing Luzdj aside. 

“Unless you need me to fix the stove,” she added, brandishing the wrench she’d taken to carrying around everywhere. It made her, if possible, more intimidating.

Spock shot Jim a worried glance, and Jim smiled back unhelpfully. Hebe had been ‘fixing’ things all week to disastrous effect, and Spock obviously didn’t want her anywhere near his soup.

“Thank you, but your services will not be required at this time,” Spock said, casually stepping between Hebe and the stove under the guise of adjusting the damper. “It will be done in approximately 8.32 minutes.”

Deciding that Spock should be left alone to finish his mystery soup, Jim turned around.

“Okay, you three goons,” Jim said, putting his hands on his hips—his captain’s stance. “We’re setting the table. Hebe and Margit, bowls, napkins; Luzdj, you’re on cup duty and I’ll—”

“Peel these,” Spock directed, pointing at several dark yellow and purple root vegetables and an apple-fruit. _The makings of a salad,_ Jim recognized suspiciously, filled with the sense that Spock was getting a kick out of ordering him around. 

_Oh well._

These instructions produced a flurry of activity, and in Spock’s 8.32 minutes, the table was set.

Soon, the soup was being ladled out in time for Jim to hand Iska a cup of tea when she rushed back from the storehouse (“I am thanking you!”) just having made sure the last of the day’s red-grain was stored properly, Oqchr bumbling in after.

After Iska chirped some sort of blessing in the sparrow-language everyone started eating. Steam rose from his soup, and Jim breathed in. It smelled spicy. Like cinnamon maybe? 

_No, that wasn’t right_ , Jim thought as he spooned some up.

Back on the _Enterprise_ , Jim wouldn’t have noticed what his food smelled like. But nearly a month of being outside all day, and being made to sit down for at least two meals a day had made Jim start to appreciate things like that. Fresh baked bread, roasted vegetables, _sot,_ fruit—all of it tasted good now. _Really_ good. Jim felt like that stupid rat in that old cartoon—the one who went to Paris to become a chef and always saw swirls of colored light behind his eyes when he ate things.

Which was ridiculous. And also...nice. 

It’d been a long, long time since Jim could remember enjoying his food.

Food was easier when you ate with other people, Jim supposed. Maybe when he got back to the _Enterprise,_ he’d institute some kind of family dinner policy—or at least start eating in the Mess Hall more often, instead of squirreled away in his quarters.

Jim’s eyes widened as his lips closed around the spoon.

 _Oh_. Hell, that was good.


	14. Smitten by the Grape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the drawing of Jim and Spock.  
> Warnings in endnotes.

Using a Bowie knife to shave _sounded_ rugged and sexy, but in practice it was actually just fucking annoying. 

Jim had gotten better at it during the weeks he’d spent here, but without a mirror and with soap flakes instead of shaving cream, he always nicked himself at least once. Yesterday he’d almost taken his ear off when a stray bean-bag from a game of cornhole had hit him in the back of the head.

He _could_ just not shave of course, but Jim had never liked beards. Maybe because one of his mom’s boyfriends had had one, or, more likely, because Jim had decided he looked better without one. His was _red,_ because this universe spared no humiliation.

Jim knew it was vain and stupid to care so much. Growing up, Sam had been the only normal-looking one in his immediate family, and also the most well-adjusted. Go figure. 

Anyway, Iska had said there would be a harvest festival when the threshing was over, and Jim thought it would be a good idea not to look scruffy.

Splashing his face and wincing at the freezing cold water, Jim washed the suds off his face, feeling his chin to make sure he’d gotten rid of the stubble that had accumulated in the last few days.

When he got back to the room, he shucked off his outer clothes on the way to the bed, flopping onto it face-first with a groan when he reached it. He still had his shoes on, and he toed them off in a final burst of energy. He felt worn out from the cold and from soreness. They’d been threshing and winnowing for the last two days. It involved separating the seed-heads from the chaff by whacking them with heavy wooden dowels, and Jim’s arms were tired. 

Happy to be not moving, he let his mind go blank, idly trying to get a piece of the fruit Iska had given him that day out from between his teeth with his tongue.

“Captain, please relocate yourself,” Spock said maybe five or so minutes later when he strode into the room. Dusk had turned the air cold, and Spock liked to hide—sorry, _‘efficiently preserve thermal energy’_ —under the blankets as soon as he could.

“I’m moving,” Jim mumbled into the bedspread, not moving. He _wanted_ to, but he was too comfortable where he was and his limbs were heavy and sluggish.

A moment later, Jim felt the covers next to him lift—and then keep lifting, steep so that he was rolled over, his shoulder thumping against the wall as he was unceremoniously flopped onto his side.

“I apologize,” Spock said, getting under the blankets as Jim groaned. He didn’t sound very sorry.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Jim said, still too flabbergasted to think of anything better to say. He opened his eyes a crack, catching a glimpse of Spock’s smug expression—probably at having achieved his goal without coming into contact with Jim. 

“Was your shoulder injured?” Spock asked innocently, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Yeah, fine—no thanks to you,” Jim groused. He couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or amused. “And by the way, it’s really rich of _you_ of all people to tell me to stay on my side—I’m surprised I don’t have a black-eye yet.”

Spock looked at him, eyebrows furrowing. “A black-eye?”

“Yeah,” Jim lifted his arm and whacked it into the bed in an imitation of Spock’s flailing. “You’re a batshit crazy sleeper, you know that right?” 

The furrow between Spock’s eyebrows grew deeper, and his mouth took on a pinched look. “I have—injured you?”

“No, no,” Jim said hastily. They had an unspoken rule about not discussing their sleeping arrangement, and Jim had broken it just now. “It’s not that bad. You’ve only woken me up like, once.”

Despite the fact that Jim hadn’t been strictly honest—it’d actually been more like three or four times that he’d been woken suddenly by a backhand to the stomach—Spock still didn’t look assuaged.

“I apologize,” he said, sounding like he meant it this time. “I was unaware of this.”

At this point Jim really, _really_ wanted to make a joke about how Spock went wild in the sack—but he didn’t think that would go over well. _See?_ Maturity.

“It’s fine,” Jim said, waving his hand before finally levering himself up so that he could get under the covers. 

“Perhaps I could acquire restraints of some kind. With m—”

Jim almost choked. A vivid image of Spock, tied to the bed flashed through his mind, and his body responded instantly, a flush of heat punching through him and pooling in his stomach.

“No, it’s really okay,” Jim interrupted, trying not to sound half-strangled as he pushed away thoughts of black ropes knotted around pale green wrists. He wasn’t even _into_ bondage— _or_ Spock, definitely not Spock—but for some reason the image really _worked_ for him. Probably because Jim was so sex-starved and because Spock was really strong and seeing him like that, so vulnerable and exposed would be kinda—

Jim shut down that line of thought, pulling his pillow closer so he could bury his face in it. 

A few moments later, Spock, oblivious and plainly taking Jim at his word, turned off the light before settling under the covers like the squirmer he was.

“Night,” Jim said into the pillow, feeling it as Spock re-adjusted the covers for the third time. _Dork._

“Goodnight,” Spock said back, in the process of scooting so that he could be as far under the covers as possible.

Unable to stop himself from smiling, it occurred to Jim that this, right here, would probably be the closest he ever got to being married.

/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ 

When the final heads of grain had been picked up off the threshing floor and safely stored, work ended early on the final day of winnowing.

The drying red-grain had been sorted: some for export and some for the villagers to keep, and when it was all properly stored in high-up silos, everyone went home to get ready for the harvest festival that Iska had been promising. 

Apparently ‘getting ready’ meant doing the laundry—everybody’s dirty, wet and sweaty clothes going in the big copper vat to be boiled—and then taking showers.

Since most of the clothes were being washed, Jim ended up hustling around in a pair of old, threadbare trousers with worn-out knees and an apron tucked into them instead of a shirt. 

Spock was in much the same state, neatly tucked apron only covering his front. Wending his way through the heavy laundry lines, Jim sometimes got glimpses of his back. His shoulders were more muscular than Jim had expected, and _freckled_ like his face.

Probably all that was only from working outdoors for the last few weeks.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

“When did you get your first suitor?” Margit asked Jim, as muddy, they both waited to take their turns in the shower.

Jim paused for a moment.

“I’ve never had one,” he said. “Not until I got married,” he added because that was the story.

“Is that because you’re weird-looking?” Hebe asked dubiously, pausing in her task of ‘fixing’ the fence with her wrench. Jim watched out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to be blamed if anything went wrong—just a few days ago she had ‘fixed’ the _harel_ paddock, and all of the heard had escaped. She’d called it ‘liberation,’ of course—but this explanation hadn’t flown with Iska, and Hebe had temporarily lost wrench privileges.

“Rude,” Margit said, stepping on Hebe’s foot, and causing her to squawk. Casting a noble, lifted-chin look at her hopping sister, Margit turned to Jim. “ _I_ think you’re pretty,” she said gravely. “Even though your arms are small and you can’t lift high, and your eyes are the wrong color so you have to squint in the sun.” 

“She looks better than when she got here,” Hebe conceded. “You were all pale and gross and—”

Hebe was cut off by Margit’s foot.

“How long did Spock court you?” Margit asked, turning away from Hebe and blinking at him curiously. “Usually it’s three months but sometimes it’s longer if the girl isn’t sure. You were sure though, right?” 

Before Jim could make up a lie, Iska herded the girls into the shower and Jim was saved from another awkward moment. 

He still didn’t feel bad about the lying—that was necessary and for everybody’s benefit. But this particular lie had started to sting, more and more as he and Spock had worked out how to be nicer to each other. 

Waking up together, working near each other during the day, playing games with the kids and going to _sleep_ with one another in the same bed—all of it had become a new sort of ordeal.

Jim had realized why a few days ago. A light sleeper, he’d startled awake in the middle of the night to the sight of a small figure at the foot of the bed, staring at him with baleful eyes. 

Startled, he’d jerked backwards with a yell. A befuddled Spock had sat up fast, only for both of them to realize that the figure Jim had seen was Ixo. 

While Jim was still breathing hard and _not_ freaking out—kids were fucking scary, this was why he avoided them—Spock had already gotten out of bed, and was talking to the toddler in what sounded like Sparrow People language. Ixo hadn’t said anything (Jim wasn’t sure if he could even talk) but he’d just held out his arms and Spock had picked him up, balancing him on his hip in the same, practiced way that Iska did, straightening his feathers in a soothing gesture. 

Somewhat shell-shocked Jim had waited in the bed, listening to the faint creaking of puncheon boards and the whispery sound of Spock’s voice coming from the hall. By the time Spock returned several minutes later, Jim was still alert. 

“He okay?” he’d asked.

“I believe so,” Spock had murmured, already climbing back under the covers. “A nightmare. This species has a fascinating…” Spock had fallen asleep mid-sentence, leaving Jim lying awake, his heart beating like a drum for a lot of different reasons. And the next morning he'd woken up with a foot against his calf, Spock's sprawled arm on his torso, and he hadn't even been annoyed—because it was _funny,_ and not annoying to see Spock that way when he was so prim and proper the rest of the time.

After that it’d been obvious—way too obvious to ignore. Jim _liked_ Spock. Which, maybe it was just because Jim was touched in the head, but he _did_. Liked him because Spock was funny, and rude, and supercilious, and sometimes even nice. Well, not _nice_ —Spock was never _nice_ —but he definitely did nice things. Which, _fuck._

It made things harder. Harder for Jim to stop imagining a life where he really was a sparrow-farmer’s wife, married to a good person with a strong back with freckles on it, where he’d never been with anyone until he after he’d been courted, slowly, for at least three months, and more if he wasn’t sure.

Wishing that sort of thing was stupid. Nothing more than a painful waste of time, and it only made the lies he had to tell harder—blurring with the fantasy of a life Jim would never get to have.

After Jim came back from the showers, the girls had already changed into red calico dresses, and Luzdj into a waistcoat, all of them bouncing off the walls—more or less literally with their light bones and wing-like arms.

A put-upon Iska turned to him as soon as he stepped inside.

“Come. I have—” she said, gesturing Jim forward excitedly as soon as she saw him. “For you to wear. You will need clothing for the dancing.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. He’d sort of figured he’d go in the dry, too-big clothes he’d changed into.

But that was not to be. Jim was pushed into Iska’s room to get gussied up. Once the door was shut, Hebe, Margit and Iska got him out of his over-clothes and undershirt—Hebe being soundly told off for telling him he looked weird and featherless.

So Jim was sort of expecting it when Iska proudly held up a red dress, heavily embroidered with flowers like those she and her daughters were wearing. He’d figured something like this was coming—had been almost expecting it to happen ever since he’d made up his mind to lie about being a lady. 

“I made it for my daughter Io. She is married now,” Iska said. “Arms up.”

There was nothing for it, Jim decided, obeying. This wasn’t his first choice—not by a long shot—but unless he made some weird excuse, he didn’t know how to get out of it. He reminded himself that it would be fine. Only Spock would see him, and there was nothing wrong with dresses. Any discomfort he felt was his own fragile bullshit ego, and he’d just have to suck it up. 

Besides, in a few days, he and Spock would be leaving Xochuil: headed to Ozu with the portion of the harvest to be sold, and then to Zsofia. With luck, they'd find some sort of embassy there, or at least long-range coms. They could even be back on the _Enterprise_ by next week. Jim could put up with anything until then.

In a few more moments Iska had the back of Jim’s dress buttoned and while they all twittered in excitement. It was a good thing Jim had gotten more used to the kids, because next Jim was made to sit down, and Hebe and Margit put clip-on earrings on him, kohl around his eyes and dots of red paint over his eyebrows like the ones they had. 

Eyeliner and pierced ears were totally punk, Jim told himself. 

And being fussed over was almost...nice. He’d never gotten ready for a party before—not with other people the way you saw in movies, so it was kinda nice, even if it felt like he’d fallen head first into the pages of _Little Women_.

Iska rubbed something on Margit and Hebe’s feathers and behind Jim’s ears that made them all smell like herbs from her garden. Then she dabbed red paint on her own and Jim’s eyelids: sticky like annatto and according to Iska, ceremonial. It made Jim's eyelids feel heavy when he blinked.

“He will think you are very beautiful,” Iska said, catching him off guard.

“But I thought you always say beauty is what we do, not what we look like,” Jim said, repeating words Iska had said weeks ago, and which he hadn't realized he'd remembered. 

“Yes,” she agreed, winking one round eye at him.

And then they were all filing out, Iska lending him a big red scarf and a barn coat that felt like a feedsack and maybe was one then he and the girls were pouring out into the living room and then outside into the evening.

Another family had a truck and stopped by to give them a ride. They all got into the open-air cargo bed and the truck's engine rumbled back to life, Iska carefully balancing a basket full of whatever it was Spock had helped her make yesterday. It smelled like caramel, and Jim wasn't sure whose side he was on when Hebe inevitably tried to sneak some.

By the time they arrived at the designated barn (of course it was a barn. Jim was from the midwest, he was practically _destined_ to go to barn parties) he was half-caught up in Hebe and Margit’s excitement. The inside was decorated in wreaths of flowers and crowded with variously colored sparrow people. Jim had since learned that their feathers lost pigmentation with age; the whites, rosettes and hoary greens, mixing in with the darker colors of the younger birds.

After having his coat taken by Iska, Jim turned to see that Spock, face faintly green from the cold, giving him an odd look.

“What?” Jim asked before he remembered the dress. “Oh yeah.” Shoving down his embarrassment, Jim hid it with bluster. “I know, I look hot in everything. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I had no intention of doing so,” Spock said, looking away over Jim’s head like the three inches of height he had on him was a foot. _Jerk._

Jim narrowed his eyes. “Jeez, stop being so nice to me—people will think we’re married or something.” 

_Good one_. Unfortunately he was unable to witness Spock’s reaction to his devastating comeback because just then he was tugged away by Hebe and Margit for the first dance.

Wearing a skirt meant you had to walk differently, and Jim felt a tad self-conscious as he followed Hebe and Margit to the flaxen-brown birds forming a circle. No one seemed to notice though.

From a small crowd of sparrow-musicians—wielding what looked like lutes, mandolins and woodwinds—a tune was struck up, and Jim was pushed into position by an insistent Hebe.

The steps were simple thankfully—step forward, step back, switch places. So simple that it was easy for newcomers to join as the barn filled, making Jim suspect that simplicity was the point. A welcome dance.

Soon the barn had reached capacity, and Jim noticed with trepidation that all the olive-colored male birds had melted away, leaving only the women, who began forming a circle.

“This is our dance,” Margit told him when he looked around for an explanation. 

Nervously, Jim stood where he thought he was supposed to, looking around at the circle of tawny sparrow-women, all in various shades of calico red, sporting work boots since most people didn't have any other shoes.

Hebe winked at him—man that wasn’t comforting at all—and a moment later the music started up again, quicker than before. 

The dance was quicker too, and Jim would’ve been totally fucking lost if Iska and Margit hadn’t been his first two partners. They went as slow as possible, explaining the motions while Jim hectically committed everything to memory, feeling exactly as he did when Uhura briefed him before a mission. Thankfully not all of it was totally alien: it reminded him of a clapping game— _Down by the Banks,_ or _Cho-co-la-te—_ a rapid back and forth paired with simultaneous foot touches.

And the dance itself seemed to be a bit like a game too, a whirl of claps, quick twirls and partner changes which seemed designed to make people mess up. And maybe it _had_ been, because everyone did at some point, stepping the wrong way, missing a clap or not being in the right place in time—always quickly set to rights a moment later as others picked up the slack—meaning Jim wasn’t alone, hands and feet quickly growing accustomed to the rhythm. 

_Good_. He wasn’t going to fucking disgrace himself.

But just as Jim thought that, the song picked up, pushing the dancers faster too, everyone’s focus growing more intense, and Jim started sweating, head emptying of everything but the pattern: clap, clap, join hands, twirl, foot tap, foot tap, clap, trying to keep up with the breakneck pace of the sparrow ladies and a manic Hebe who grinned at him every time they were partners.

Strenuous as it was, half-way through Jim realized that he was grinning too, everybody forgetting everything but keeping up as the song got even _faster,_ whirling in step with everyone else at a feverish pitch, and there was no way, no way it could get any faster, this was bananas, he was going to fall over in a second—

And just when Jim thought this, the song ended, and everyone staggered to a stop, leaning on each other; giggling and panting as they wobbled together in air that smelled like balsam and feathers, giddy as they became individuals once more, with thoughts in their heads other than how to keep up.

He felt strangely proud—endorphin high mixing with the certainty that he wouldn’t have been able to do that when he’d first gotten here a month ago, all weak and pale like Hebe had said.

“Do the men have to do something like that?” Jim asked a breathless Margit once he could speak.

“The men couldn’t do something like that,” Hebe put in, and Margit nodded agreeing with her sister for once. “They’re not smart enough.”

His hoarse laugh was cut short as Jim realized with dread that they were going to be expected to dance _again_ , right away, as the male Sparrow People started stepping back into the circle, forming one of their own inside the circle of women.

“Don’t worry,” Hebe told him. “They have to do most of the work for this one.” 

“It’s the harvest dance,” Margit explained. “We’re the red-grain and they’re the harvesters.”

Not at all sure if he liked the sound of that, Jim got into position anyway, across from an elderly, white-feathered sparrow-gentleman who gave him a small nod as a statelier rhythm was struck up.

Copying Hebe, who he watched out of the corner of his eye, Jim used one hand to lift his skirt—so _that_ was what Iska had meant by him needing the dress—stepping forward on somewhat wobbly legs and bringing up his other arm to mirror his partner as they turned in a circle, forearms and palms aligned but not touching as they switched positions, before they stepped backwards, interweaving once around the people next to them, then repeating the turn, and then one more time. As he stepped forward again, Jim’s partner made meaningful eye-contact with him—except Jim didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, and then— _fuck!_

He almost squawked as he was hoisted by the waist into the air, hands braced on the man’s arms, twirled around, and then, somehow, set back on his feet along with all the other female birds, who looked more bird-like than ever in their wide skirts, momentarily air-borne.

Okay, well that wasn’t _so_ bad, Jim decided. 

His next partner was Luzdj though, who was much too small to hoist him, so they did a more earth-bound twirl instead, Luzdj looking very solemn in his funny blue outfit. Solemnity which broke in a fit of giggles when his next partner was his mom, who twirled him instead.

Four twirls later, Jim was having a great time despite being a bit shaky and was beginning to wonder why they didn’t have dances like this on Earth. The dancing in clubs had nothing on this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Spock across the circle, dutifully stepping where he was supposed to and looking tall, almost as imposing as he did on the bridge, despite (because of?) his blue and white striped button-front and brown suspenders.

Inevitably as the circles rotated, Jim and Spock were brought closer and closer and Jim realized that of course, the two of them would be partnered eventually.

Spock’s partners, Jim noticed as they got closer, all seemed _particularly_ eager to be hoisted by him—goddamn Vulcan strength. Jim would’ve been jealous about it, but watching Spock hoist and twirl a thrilled-looking Margit was actually really cute.

After a few more turns, Jim and Spock were facing each other. Their eyes met, and Jim gave a nonchalant shrug and Spock raised his eyebrow as the stretch of a fiddle indicated they step forward.

 _Skirt_ in hand, Jim stepped around Spock focus entirely on him as they turned around each other, hands an inch apart, before stepping back again. It reminded him eerily of when they had invaded the _Narada_ together, bodies perfectly in sync. Jim wondered if Spock was thinking the same thing.

“Don’t you fucking dare drop me,” Jim whispered to him as a second pass was completed. They stepped around the people next to them and then faced each other again. Spock’s eyes were inscrutable, and Jim winked, trying not to show how embarrassed he felt.

 _Like the Narada,_ Jim reminded himself as he stepped forward, heart accelerating for no particular reason as they stepped again into each other’s orbits.

Then, for a brief moment, Spock’s hands were on his waist, his own hands gripping Spock’s arms for dear life and he was being lifted, turned—and then it was over and he was being set back down on his feet, Spock stepping back and to the side.

Breathless, Jim moved onto the next partner and the moment was over. Several more twirls and a few minutes later, Jim was facing his original partner, the dapper old gentleman, who bowed to him, and the dance was over.

Worn out, Jim was grateful to see that the next dance was for the children. All of the tiny sparrows scampered around, dawning paper crowns which surrounded their faces like flower petals. 

Stepping to the side, Jim was gestured toward an _ofrenda_ -like table by a sparrow whose septic tank he'd fixed. The table was filled with flat, almondy cakes, flower-shaped desserts, and a sweet wine the color of red-grain stalks. As Jim watched, Hebe and Margit crowded in, both looking conspicuously sly as they slid cakes off the table and behind their backs, passing a couple to Jim before darting off. Someone else handed him a tiny cup of wine, and he drank it gratefully.

That drink was followed by several more, as jovial sparrows who he recognized from the fields and his many repair projects continued to press cups of wine and strong-smelling grain alcohol into his hands. Every fourth cup, as Iska had previously explained, had to be poured out at the feet of a small statue of the sparrow people's harvest deity: a fertility spirit named _Hanhepi._ The statue had a skirt made of grain husks and her eyelids were painted red.

Despite the tradition, Jim still ended up punch-drunk much faster than he'd intended.

More potent than he’d expected—had to be the altitude—the wine went to his head, and soon _everything_ was good: vision swimming and clinging worries vanishing as he twirled around with Luzdj and Margit, Hebe and Iska, feeling so happy in her strong arms, kept calling her _‘Mom,’_ by accident, which made her laugh and give him sparrow kisses, a warm press of her cheek on his, and Jim felt like he could float up to the ceiling.

Too soon, it was over. After the children, now all in flower petals, gathered at one end of the room to sing a harvest song about sun and grain and water that sounded like birdsong, the doors were opened and everyone poured into the twinkling starlight outside, light from the hall melting into darkness.

Several older couples were tired from the dancing and it was lightly misting outside, so Jim gave up his spot on the truck, volunteering to walk home instead. 

He was about to walk off into the dark on his own (in the wrong direction) when Iska caught him, making him stop so she could tie a scarf around his neck, throwing an amused look over his shoulder so that Jim had to turn all the way around (also the wrong way, so that he ended up doing almost a 360°) to see who she was looking at.

Spock was standing there in his lumpy coat. Seeing him, Jim’s face broke into a wide, unstoppable grin. 

In response, Spock did his sidewaysy-blink thing— _cute_ —and Jim ended up missing he and Iska’s final exchange. When next Jim knew what was happening, Iska had vanished somehow and Spock was already setting off back towards the house.

“That was _fun,”_ Jim said, stumbling after him on the wet grass, his vision still ocean-wavy. It was near freezing outside, but Jim felt too warm to feel it in his feedsack coat and alcohol still heating his insides. Above them, the sky looked like an upside down ocean, thumbnail moon rising green over a hill ahead of them.

“You are intoxicated,” Spock said, steadying Jim with a hand on his back which was there and then gone.

“S’not true,” Jim said, defending his honor. But then he _giggled_ and he had to clap a hand over his mouth to make it stop.

“Okay, okay, but it wasn’t on purpose,” he said, slurring. For some reason it felt important to explain, so that Spock wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “I’ll have you know I’ve only been drunk—” Jim thought for a moment. “—one time since the mission started. _And_ I had a good reason.” Jim screwed his eyes shut. “I just...can’t remember what it is right now—hey look! A shooting star!”

Jim started off after the star, chanting some garbled lines of a drinking song.

Promptly slipping on the grass, he probably would’ve fallen on his ass if Spock hadn’t caught him by one of his flailing arms and hauled him up.

“Ope!” Jim said, staggering into Spock, who released him as soon as he was steady. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Cease walking so carelessly,” Spock said, arm snapping back rigidly against his side.

“Sheesh,” Jim said. “We gotta walk fast so you don’t die out here. Actually—” 

Jim untangled his scarf from his neck and almost fell into Spock again as he tried to swoop it over Spock’s head. 

There was a brief struggle as Jim tried to knot the scarf under Spock’s chin— _babooshka_ style because that would be the most hilarious—and Spock caught him by the shoulders, easily holding him at bay for a few seconds before stepping back, causing Jim to stagger and have to catch himself.

“Hey!” Jim said indignantly.

“Captain, please cease your behavior,” Spock said in a terse voice, walking forward again. “It is unseemly.”

Jim groaned as he followed, annoyed that Spock was being a wet-blanket. “I’m _allowed_ to be drunk. It’s not my fault you’re a goody-two-shoes,” Jim said, trying to convey his disgust at the concept. “Why can’t you just have fun for like, a second?”

“Vulcans do not have fun.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Now you're just being a chara—caricature of yourself," he said, vaguely aware that his brain-to-mouth filter still wasn’t working properly. "So take that.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. 

Jim made a disgruntled noise. “Why do you have to be so—” Jim couldn’t think of the right word, and settled for waving his hand vaguely in Spock’s direction. “Like what’s the point? Cat's out of the bag now. I know you’re nice.”

“I am not.”

Jim rolled his eyes again—which he regretted a second later because it made him feel dizzy. He kinda wished Spock would just put an arm around him and take him home. Fat chance. “Yeah, okay, you’re right—you’re not. I was exaggerating. You’re mean, and a sad-sack and you don’t like anybody. There,” he said. “Are you happy?”

“No,” Spock said.

His voice was a monotone, but even drunk, Jim _knew_ Spock was making fun of him, and he snorted, shoving Spock in the shoulder—which was like shoving a steel bulkhead. 

“What a piece of work,” Jim muttered, pronouncing it more like _whadda piece-ah-work._ “It’s a real good thing you’re so nice to me all the time—otherwise I’d start having self-esteem issues.”

“And it is likewise ‘a good thing’ that you are not so illogical as to seek sympathy from a Vulcan—as doing so would cast doubt on your intelligence.” 

“Pfftt—fine. Jesus, I get it. You’re better than everyone else. Humans are weak and stupid and—” Jim broke off, almost walking into Spock again, only to be redirected by a fleeting touch on his shoulder. “—we can’t hold our liquor.”

They were almost at the house by now, at the foot of Iska’s hill, yellow lights creating slices of static in the misty rain. Jim found himself about to stumble again, which made him realize he’d been doing it half on purpose, to see if Spock would keep catching him. Better not test that.

“I did not say that,” Spock said quietly. “Nor do I believe that humans are inferior.” 

“I know,” Jim said. “Sorry. I talk too much when I’m drunk.” After the walk in the misty rain, the wine was starting to wear off, but the liquor—liquor always had a slower kick—had set in, a woozier, steeper rush.

Stumbling again, Jim caught himself on the clapboard of the house. “Ope,” he muttered under his breath.

“Ope?” Spock asked as he opened the side-door that led straight to their room, holding it open for Jim.

Jim blushed a little, stepping inside after him.

“Just something people in the Midwest say,” he said, leaning on the door frame for support as he shut the door.

Once indoors, Jim shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes, hopping around as he pulled off first one soggy stocking and then the other. 

It got a little trickier when he tried to get the dress off, his fingers fumbling at the buttons which all seemed to have grown smaller, and Jim struggled for a few moments, only getting the top button before his arms grew tired and he gave up.

“Spock, can you?” he asked, lamely gesturing at them.

Nodding wordlessly, Spock stepped over, and Jim felt Spock’s hand brush the nape of his neck. Jim’s eyes fluttered shut, relaxing at the warm feel of Spock’s fingers through the fabric. The buttons went all the way down Jim’s back, and Spock had to unbutton them one by one. Warm already, Jim's face grew warmer as Spock slowly opened the back of his dress. What if—

Spock stepped back, and Jim raised his head, realizing he’d unconsciously bent it forward. He could feel all the questions he'd kept back for so long tumbling to the tip of his tongue, the inappropriate ones about what Vulcans thought about sex and whether Spock thought about it and, most pressingly and most inappropriately _Do I turn you on?_

“Thanks,” Jim said instead, stepping away too, pulling the dress down and stepping out of it in his skivvies— _bloomers_ —wait, where was his shirt? He didn’t remember taking it off, but he definitely wasn’t wearing it now. Well—so long! 

Unclipping his earrings, Jim turned to see Spock getting undressed too. His suspenders were hanging by his sides, and he was in the process of unbuttoning his over-shirt, the tops of his ears flushed greener than usual from the cold. 

“Umf,” Jim said, flopping down on the bed and rolling to his side, body still too warm from the drinking to be under the covers, watching as Spock took off his clothes, long muscled legs covered with dark hair stepping out of his trousers, back arching forward as he pulled off his outer shirt—before Jim realized he was staring and stopped.

Annoyance sparked in his chest. Why wasn’t Spock looking at _him?_ He wanted Spock to look at him.

Spock didn't look at him though. Instead, Spock bent to pick up the dress that Jim had left on the floor. Jim’s annoyance grew, and he propped his head on his hand. He was wearing stupid bloomers, but he was _Jim Kirk_. He could make anything sexy if he turned it on.

“Too bad. I looked good in that,” he said, watching as Spock laid the dress over the chair.

Without responding, Spock turned, still not looking at him as he stepped toward the bed. 

“S’fine though,” Jim said, mouth curling in a smirk as he tilted his head suggestively. “‘Cause I look even better out of it.”

Spock’s mouth was a flat line as he efficiently got into the bed and pulled the covers up, not looking at Jim because Spock was no fun and didn’t like it when Jim made sex jokes. Why _was_ that? 

“Aw c’mon,” Jim whined. He wanted Spock's attention. “Would it physically hurt you to agree?” Reaching over, Jim rested a slightly uncoordinated hand next to Spock's shoulder on the bed. “As your wife, I’m insulted.”

Twitching away, Spock turned out the light, still not looking at him. “Your preoccupation with your own appearance is unpleasant,” he said, sounding almost as bitchy as he used to. “As is your need for praise.”

Sharp as they were, Spock’s words pricked something deep in Jim’s chest. He rolled onto his back. 

“Ugh, I know," he said, words coming out heavier than he meant them to. Hopefully _whatever_ this was just the weepy stage of being drunk. 

Spock made a noise that sounded like _tch_. Impatient, as though Jim's admission was so obvious as to be insignificant, despite what it'd cost.

“If you are aware that your behavior is unpleasant, then why do you continue in it?” 

_If you're aware that your_ face _is unpleasant, then why—_

Jim groaned. This was why he didn't do serious conversations. “You’re no fun, Spock.” He pulled back his side of the covers but still too warm to get under them.

“Why do y _—_ ” Spock began heatedly, before quickly cutting himself off. There was a pause, during which Jim, telepathic-dud though he was, could practically hear Spock's thoughts assembling themselves.

"If I grant your previous request," Spock said slowly. "Then will you explain your behavior?

Eyes widening, Jim turned his head to look at Spock. He couldn’t see more than an outline in the dark. 

Had he misheard? Or had _Spock_ really just offered to tell him he was hot? For a second Jim imagined Spock’s voice saying ‘You are very attractive, Jim’ or ‘I find you to be aesthetically pleasing,’ and his chest was suffused with pleasure. 

Jim wanted to hear that _so bad_ —but his instincts kicked in, blurry but present, even sodden with alcohol. _Bargaining_ wasn’t something Spock did, so he must really want an explanation. Jim’s comments must have bothered Spock more than he’d thought, and he realized belatedly that they’d probably sounded too much like the way he’d used to taunt Spock before they'd gotten to be friends.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just—” Jim had been going to say ‘joking,’ but that sounded too much like an excuse. He still wasn't even sure why talking about sex bothered Spock so much.

“Apologies are unnecessary,” Spock said. Jim knew meant that they _were._

He rolled over onto his stomach, groaning into his pillow. What did Spock want an _explanation_ for? Why couldn't he do the _normal thing_ , and just pretend it was all fine and drop it?

“It’s a boring story,” Jim said when he lifted his face. That was always a sure-fire way to get people to lose interest.

Spock didn’t respond, but Jim could literally feel him waiting for more. Jim groaned again. Spock wanted _pillow talk_ of all things. Jim was only tipsy at this point—he always acted drunker than he was—and his inhibitions weren't so low that he was afraid of spilling more than he meant to. Still. He didn’t _like_ talking about this stuff and he didn't want whatever judgement Spock was going to pass on him.

On the other hand, Spock was _looking_ at him now, and he wasn’t quite ready for that to be over.

“Fine, whatever,” Jim said, deciding that if Spock wanted to do the whole drunken bonding thing, he'd play along.

“Bones thinks I have a complex—I don’t even know what that means. Just—” Jim grimaced. _Here goes_. “People have been telling me that I was good-looking my whole life. You know,” Jim hurried to explain. “Like my _mom_ , and old ladies at grocery stores—and you know, other people who probably shouldn’t have been looking,” Jim said before veering away from _that;_ he wasn’t _that_ drunk _._ “Anyway, like I said, now Bones thinks I have a complex.”

Realizing he was repeating himself, Jim bit the inside of his cheek, feeling weird as fuck— _this_ was why he hated talking about real stuff. He sounded like he was complaining about being _too good-looking—_ Spock must think he was a complete ass. He probably _was_ a complete ass.

“What about you,” Jim began, trying to redirect the conversation. “Didn’t people tell you your whole childhood that you were good at something and now you need to hear it all the time?”

Spock was silent for a long moment, and Jim thought he might not respond, but then—

“No.” Spock's voice was unreadable. “Censure was...more frequent than praise.”

Jim’s brow wrinkled. “Why? And who did the smensu—censuring?”

“My instructors and peers.” Another pause, this one shorter. “And my father. My genetic makeup made certain Vulcan practices such as meditation and rote memorization difficult for me to master, and for the majority of my childhood I was below average in both emotional discipline and academics.”

 _What?_ Jim was slow to comprehend, mind boggling as he tried to imagine Spock being anything less than perfect at everything. 

Did _that_ have anything to do with why—with why Spock _hurt_ himself? Biting his lip to stop himself from asking that out loud, Jim suddenly felt a lot more sober.

He was probably silent for too long because Spock spoke up again before Jim could think of what to say. “I wish to understand. Why does your opinion of yourself depend so strongly on the opinions of others? 

Jim resisted the urge to groan again. Spock was getting into stuff that Jim never thought about if he could help it. Anyway, it was all well and good for _Spock_ to ask that. Spock always did the right thing, and so he had the power of inner righteousness to fall back on, whereas all Jim had was what other people thought of him.

 _'You're too good at keeping secrets,'_ swirled through Jim's brain again _._ He knew that was true. Once, in an uncharacteristically serious moment his mother had said _‘Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know you.’_ Jim had laughed it off and changed the subject, but it still bothered him.

 _Fuck it_.

"That's something I admire about you," Jim admitted. "You don't care what other people think. Like—you don't do things just because other people want you to. Even when _I_ want you to.

Jim laughed. "I'm the opposite. Actually—get this—as a kid, I had a lisp. And everybody—all the adults I mean—thought it was _adorable_.” Jim scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Anyway, I figured that out of course, and I kept it up ‘for a whole extra year,’” Jim said, lisping the last part before switching back to his normal voice. “Even though my speech was fine by then.” 

Jim paused, realizing he wasn’t sure where he was going with the story, losing the thread as his mouth worked quicker than his brain. He _knew_ he cared too much about what he looked like, and that it was _stupid;_ his mom would love him even if he looked like a literal fucking toad.

But Jim also knew that the way he looked had an effect on people.

 _Does it have an effect on Spock?_ he wondered, before he shoved the idea away. Spock was probably judging him for thinking that way right now.

That made his spirits dip. Compared to Spock, Jim was such a shallow person. He'd always assumed Spock had everything perfect growing up, but it turned out that wasn't true. Now it seemed _Jim_ was the one who’d been born lucky— _gifted_ —soaring aptitude scores without trying, better-looking than everyone around him, and a mom who he knew loved him more than most parents loved their kids. Regardless of everything else, Jim had all of that. Spock had...well, it sounded like Spock had jackshit.

“Jim, may I ask a question?” Spock asked.

“Hmm? Yeah, okay,” Jim said, sluggish thoughts interrupted by Spock’s use of his first name.

“When you mentioned individuals in your childhood who should not have commented on your appearance, what w—”

Jim knew all at once what Spock was going to ask. If it wasn’t this question, it would be the next, or the one after. Because, for all his obtuseness, Spock was too smart and Jim was too obvious. He panicked. 

Reacting instinctively, he rolled over and on top of Spock, forearms pressed into the pillow and bracketing Spock’s face. Terror flashed through him—what was he _doing?_ But he couldn’t stop and Jim did the only thing in his head. His lips found Spock’s.

It was sloppy, and Jim was drunk, his mouth still tasting of alcohol and Spock wasn’t moving beneath him so Jim pressed his tongue into Spock’s lax, half-open mouth. _React_. _Fucking do something_. He had just begun to run his hands through Spock’s hair—like it was a real kiss, like he was going to tip Spock’s head back and then Spock would kiss him back—when Spock unfroze, a strange sound coming out of his mouth and his arms flailing, legs kicking up in an unwieldy motion and connecting hard with Jim’s shin as he was knocked sideways.

One of Jim’s arms thumped against the wall, and his back landed on the bed, which creaked in response.

“Sorry,” Jim slurred, trying not to gasp in pain. “Sorry, I kiss people when I’m drunk sometimes,” he lied. “Don’t know why I did that.” 

Grimacing, Jim looked over at Spock. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and he could see that Spock was just lying there, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression. 

A moment later, Spock sat up abruptly and swung his legs off the bed.

Jim should say something now, he knew. Should say sorry for real, maybe even explain.

The bed dipped and then sprang back into place as Spock got up and left the room.

Jim should go after him. Spock had always followed him. Even when they’d hated each other, he’d followed.

Pulling the covers over himself, Jim closed his eyes, letting shame and anger wash over him until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: drunkenness, non-con kiss.
> 
> "Sooner..Than I, to frenzy temulent, with love, False to its palpitating precepts prove." —1770, unknown source
> 
> The Sparrow People music probably sounded something like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvNZeh6f8vE). Chapter title is a euphemism for drunkenness. The ope's are in your honor [@drmccoynextdoor](https://drmccoynextdoor.tumblr.com/) 💛


	15. A story about secrets and fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to [datspacebitch](https://datspacebitch.tumblr.com/) for the Jim fanart!  
> Warnings in endnotes

In the three days before the grain trucks left for Ozu, Jim and Spock didn’t speak to each other.

That was a lie. Jim said a few meaningless, banal things to him in front of the family as they worked, packing up all the grain bags and making sure they were properly sealed for the journey into the mountains.

And there had been the morning after of course. Jim had woken to find Spock asleep next to him, sprawled out like usual, just like a kid. He’d felt sad seeing Spock that way. So sad that during the day, he’d resolved to apologize. 

But when Jim had come back to their room that evening, and seen Spock sitting on the chair and quietly taking off his shoes with a closed expression, the apology had twisted itself backwards, splitting like firewood beneath a sudden inexplicable rage.

“I don’t see why you’re acting like such a fucking prude,” he’d said. “It was just a kiss.”

Spock had looked at his shoes, not answering. This had made Jim even angrier for some reason. “And by the way,” he’d continued, “Just so you know, sex is just sex and it’s not a big deal either, and I don’t know why you get off pretending you’re the fucking Queen of Andor.”

Wordlessly, Spock had gotten up and left again, and that night and morning were a repeat of the ones before.

After that Jim stopped trying to apologize. He didn’t know how to without _explaining_ and he didn’t know how to do that without getting angry, his words becoming crueler than he intended. 

And why _should_ Jim apologize? What had he done, really? It had just been a kiss. Where did Spock get off throwing a fit about it? Did he think Jim had gotten him _dirty?_

Maybe Spock really was homophobic, like Jim had thought before. 

Spock had probably been looking for an excuse to snub him. He’d never stopped looking down on Jim—Jim had known that all along but he’d let himself pretend otherwise, because pretending was so much nicer than reality.

But underneath it all, Jim hadn’t really _forgotten_. Why else had he spent all that energy tiptoeing around Spock’s sensitivity _,_ editing his language, his tactile instincts, _himself_. Jim had been doing all that, just for Spock’s benefit, for over a month now—since they’d met actually. Spock should be the one apologizing to _Jim_ —for being such a sanctimonious prick and forcing everybody around him to be as perfect as he was.

And it was all a front—Spock just wanted to make other people feel bad about themselves. For not living up to his stupid standards and following his rules. 

_Schmuck._

It was probably best to stop thinking about Spock altogether.

Unfortunately for Jim, packing required a lot of lifting but little concentration, so his thoughts were left to meander while he hefted bag after bag of grain into the supply trucks. And as so often happened, when they meandered, his thoughts clouded over, fogging with worries that had somehow slipped his mind in the last few weeks _(Mom okay? Will I lose my job? Enterprise okay?)_. 

He should be happy, he knew. He’d been looking forward to this for so long. They were going up to the mountains _at last_ , and if Iska was right, that would mean he could be back aboard the _Enterprise_ in a week if they were lucky.

But that idea didn’t make him happy. 

It didn’t make him sad either. Apathy helped him keep away even worse feelings, and from the day after his and Spock’s— _whatever_ it’d been—Jim found himself looking at his food with no desire to eat it. He didn’t want Spock to think he was feeling sorry for himself though, so he _did_ eat. Even though swallowing hurt, and the food was heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach, and once or twice he had to go off to the bathroom afterwards because he’d gotten too nauseous to keep it down.

He felt guilty about that. The Sparrow People weren’t on the edge of starvation, but they didn’t waste anything either. It wasn’t like throwing food into the recycler on a Starship, which would break it down and re-integrate it into the carbon matrix. But he couldn’t help it.

He’d even taken to hiding the after dinner fruits Iska continued to give him. Dinner was hard enough already, and afterwards he didn’t have the energy, so he hid them in a balled up apron under the bed since he didn’t want to throw those away too.

None of this was new.

Jim wished it could've been different, but sex tended to ruin things in his experience, and even though a kiss wasn’t sex, he felt the same principle applied here. 

So he couldn’t be as surprised as he wanted to be. This was just the rubber hitting the road. The real deal. Which made it obvious that all that about them becoming friends had all been Jim’s imagination. A fantasy. A lie he’d told himself to keep himself from going insane on this planet, and Jim’s overactive desire for wish-fulfillment duping him yet again.

A wish as unreal and foolish as the idea that he and Spock were Sparrow People. That they were a husband and wife who were very much in love and had never been with anybody but each other.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

“Your feelings. How are they?” Iska asked him on the night before he and Spock were set to leave, while he was helping her with the dishes. He knew this was a goodbye, and he felt sad, but distantly so. 

Jim smiled. “Good, thank you. I’m going to miss being here.”

Iska’s dark-eyed gaze fixed on him and Jim was startled by how sharp and piercing the look was. But a moment later she’d turned back to the tub of sudsy water and the look was gone, making Jim wonder if he’d imagined it. 

Slightly disconcerted, Jim flipped through his thoughts, trying to think of a way to redirect the conversation.

“Ah, so, you never told me. What happens to the red-grain that gets sold?” he asked. “Like what do people make with it?”

Jim watched her expression out of the corner of his eye. 

Iska nodded thoughtfully as she scrubbed a dish, and when she spoke, her tone was normal. “Once it is brought to Zsofia, I am told it is squeezed into color, yes?” _Dye_ , Jim’s brain supplied. “And the blood-red is being sold, and we are given a percent.”

“Blood?” Jim asked, trying not to shiver as he imagined blood pouring from the grain. 

Iska’s expression stayed placid. “Yes, I have told this to you," she said. "The red-grain is colored with our blood. This is the story, you remember?”

Jim nodded, relaxing a little as he remembered the fable about the thorns. 

Still, it was a little creepy to think of it that way. He wondered how much the dye cost and what percentage made its way back to the villagers. He doubted, whatever that percent was, that it was fair. Unless this world had amazing fair-trade laws, growers always got bilked. And, judging from Oqchr’s comments about not having enough money to send their children to school in the city, that was probably the case here.

Iska passed him a plate, and Jim took it, wondering what the red dye was used for on this world.

“They are making red clothes, and eye-paint with it,” Iska said, as though reading his thoughts. Not for the first time, he wondered if Sparrow People had any low-level empathic abilities. 

“Before city-buyers came, our fields were only for food-growing only, and the red-grain stayed here. Now it goes, and we make more fields in the ground. They buy our grain,” Iska made a tight fist, “and when the city is done squeezing, and all the red is gone, what is left thrown out.”

“That seems like a waste,” Jim said lightly.

“Yes. All wasting is wrong,” Iska said, her voice a shade deeper than he had ever heard it. Her eyes met his, sharp and piercing once again. 

Jim’s hand slipped on his plate. He caught it, but his stomach had turned upside-down. Iska _knew._ He could tell by her face that she knew about the throwing up. _You failed me_ , was written in her eyes. _You were our guest, and you failed me._

“Oh, that,” Jim said as casually as he could, turning to face her. “I've been feeling sick. It wasn’t on p—”

Iska turned her head, fully, to look him right in the eye, and the word ‘purpose’ died on his lips. 

_Of course_ it had been on purpose. 

Jim had known that when he’d lied through his teeth to Spock after dinner last week. He’d known that when he’d lied to Bones again and again on the _Enterprise,_ faking synthesizer logs and postponing check-ups. 

He’d known that back when it’d started. When he’d needed to feel numb and throwing up was like flushing his emotions down the toilet—before he’d discovered drugs, sex, and getting in fights could do that for you just as well.

It had just been so easy to lie to himself about it. And he’d half-believed his lies too, when he’d told them to Spock, to Bones—that he’d just been _too busy_ to eat, that he didn’t want to eat at parties or in front of people, that he was too sick to keep it down. ‘ _I don’t have an eating disorder, I promise.’_

But he could tell from Iska’s eyes that none of that would work. She knew. He’d wasted her food and generosity and she was disappointed.

Jim’s hands tightened around the plate he was holding. He felt the pressure start to build inside of him and a ringing start in his ears. Did she want him to confess?

Waiting for her rebuke,Jim was surprised to hear the swishing of the water start up again.

“You do not have to explain to me,” Iska said quietly. “A _harel_ —it was making noise in your room and I was finding them. Your fruits.”

Jim’s vision blurred. _What—?_

“Your husband, he has been asking me to give them to you this while. Why did you stop eating them? Both of you have looked sad for three days, and the _harel_ found three fruits.”

It took Jim several long, nerve-racking seconds to realize that was all. He'd been wrong. She wasn’t going to ask him about the throwing up. Either because she didn’t know about it, or if she did, she wasn’t going to make him talk. Jim felt his jaw unclench, a torrent of relief mingling with his shame. 

It took another several moments for the rest of what she’d said to catch up with him.

“Wait, Spock has been asking you to give me fruits?”

Iska nodded, no trace of that strange look in her eyes from earlier—and Jim wondered if he really had imagined it.

“Every day he is making sure to remind me,” she said.

Jim gaped and she continued, answering his wordless question. “He was worrying, I saw.” She put a finger on the spot between her eyes—the spot that sometimes wrinkled when Spock was thinking. 

Jim blinked and Iska continued.

“I asked him and he was telling me that you were becoming small. I am knowing of this. Ixo, he does not eat, and he is small,” she said with a sad expression which quickly settled into resolution. “We were feeding you. He said not to say, but I am thinking you must know.”

Hands moving automatically, Jim began drying dishes again. Several minutes passed. 

“You were both sad when you came here too,” Iska said from beside him, setting a mug on the counter for him to dry.

At this point, Jim couldn't be surprised by anything. “How did you know?”

Iska brought her hands together, demonstrating her point. “You seemed very close,” she said, slowly pulling her hands apart. “And also very far away.” She looked at him. "I saw the closeness was growing more. But now there is farness again.”

Jim wanted to sigh. She was right about that too. He and Spock had been getting closer. He'd only been telling himself it was a lie so he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he’d fucked it up. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I lied to him about a lot of things.” 

“You lie often,” she said, and Jim tensed again, eyes shooting back to her face which had a wry, too-knowing expression on it.

Jim had thought he couldn’t be surprised by anything else today, but _fuck_ had he been wrong. “You knew,” he realized, shocked. “You knew we weren’t married.”

She blinked, bobbing her head. “I was not sure. You are close, but also angry and both male.” She bobbed her head again. “I could not tell.”

Jim’s shock mounted. Had she heard them fighting that first day? “How did you—”

Iska gave him a _I’m-not-stupid_ look and Jim remembered that when he and Spock had first arrived, it had been Iska, not him, who had originally suggested their cover. 

_You shouldn’t have trusted us_.

Jim's mouth twisted. He thought back guiltily to all the half-baked plans he’d concocted in his first few weeks here: to steal a truck and make off for the mountains. To how he really would’ve done it—and only the thought that Spock wouldn’t like it had stopped him. Not gratitude or the _morality_ and _honesty_ he’d made fun of Spock for on their first day here. 

_“He_ didn’t want to lie,” Jim confessed, eyes tightening as he continued to dry dishes. Iska should know it wasn't Spock's fault. “Spock, I mean. That was all me. I made him. I'm sorry.”

Jim had thought the lie would keep them safe—but it hadn’t. Iska had. _Spock_ had. Despite the fact that he’d showed up, an ugly, weird-looking alien in their eyes, with nothing but bruises and a fake sob-story.

Iska ruffled her feathers in an almost exasperated gesture. "There is no 'sorry' in my language. I am not needing this word from you," she said. Then her eyes went mischievous. "I have already made many jokes of this and have a daughter who is wishing to fix many things because of you. This is your 'sorry.'" 

Thinking about the dress she'd had him wear and her teasing about being pregnant, part of Jim wanted to laugh. But he still didn't get it.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did you let us stay—if you knew I was a liar?” 

Iska handed him the last of the spoons to dry, turning to lean against the counter. Light from the sunset caught her feathers, making them look almost red.

“I am thinking that the problem of this world is that no one is helping each other,” she said, giving him a kind expression. “You have helped much here, Captain James Kirk. I am thanking you.”

“But what should I do?” Jim asked, feeling like she had all the answers. “He _hates_ me.”

Iska patted his head, her expression amused like he’d just said something funny. 

“Do not be silly,” she said, handing him the bucket of dishwater to dump out outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mention of eating disorder (bulimia + implied anorexic behaviors). I didn't explicitly tag this one, but I think most readers knew? /the subject matter has always been food, weight loss, poor eating habits etc. I hope the label itself won't upset anyone who hasn't already noped out.
> 
> also, Iska ships it


	16. Way of the Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early post today lads 💛 A lot of people in the comments mentioned how smart Iska is. Which she is—there are several times her shrewdness is hinted at—but I think another takeaway is that, not having had 2 parents or any good examples in his own life, Jim just doesn't know enough about relationships to pull off a lie about being in one :(
> 
> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta.  
> Warnings in endnotes

_It’s like a bird migration_ , Jim thought as the short line of trucks trundled towards the mountains, _Xochuil_ long since disappeared behind hills and switchbacks.

It was late morning since they’d gotten off to a late start. There'd been a glitch in the crankshaft of the engine of one of the trucks, and though it’d taken a few minutes for Jim to figure out what was wrong (lateral motion where the crank shaft came in contact with the bearings), it had taken several _hours_ to track down the parts he needed to fix it (machine spacers and a caliper to measure them). 

The process might’ve taken less time if he and Spock hadn’t been at odds. Spock was like a living caliper, slide rule, and level all in one, what with his ability to measure exact distances on sight. He'd hung around a few times while Jim fixed things for whatever reason, and he’d helped Jim with more than one project: doing force equations lickety-split in his head and relaying the numbers to Jim.

But Spock and he weren’t talking, so Jim didn’t ask for help.

Hebe had helped instead, still wielding her wrench and looking over his shoulder. Mostly she told him he was doing it wrong—but he was proud of how she’d started to understand how many of the parts worked. 

The delay had the Sparrow People getting antsy about the weather—apparently it looked like rain—but at least that’d given them more time to say goodbye.

“You’re going to miss me so much, you’re going to cry all the time, and you won’t ever get any better at chess,” Hebe had told him, her eyes bright.

“Yup,” Jim had said. “What about you? You’re gonna miss me too right?”

Hebe’s feathers had risen in disgust. “Ha! Weird-looking _and_ stupid—your egg probably got dropped. You’re a clod-brain, a flightless, featherless—”

“Uh huh,” Jim had said, pulling her into a hug. Her eyes were bright with tears and they both knew it.

Hebe had hugged him back tightly. “I’m only doing this so you won’t feel sad,” she said into his side with a thick voice.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’d better come back. If you don’t I’ll—I’ll—”

“Bite me?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, your mom already made me promise. Anyway, where am I going to get dinners as good as hers?” _And I need to pay her back in whatever way I can._ _You’re going to school, and maybe Starfleet, one day, I hope. If that’s what you want._

She’d head-butted him, hard, and then scampered off, but not before he saw her wiping her eyes.

Iska had pressed a rectangular package secured with a string into his hands. “Your book. Do not forget,” she’d said, obviously meaning not just the book, before giving him a really good hug. It was so good he’d almost cried—he’d been _about_ to cry, when she let go.

She’d sparrow kissed him, nuzzling her cheek against his. “I love you, Jim. Do not forget this either.”

“I love you too,” he’d said in a voice as thick as Hebe’s. “We’ll see each other again.”

“I am knowing this.”

With a heavy heart, Jim had turned towards the truck. Out of the corner of his eye he'd been able to see Ixo and Margit being pried off of Spock, Ixo wailing one long note of disconsolate misery.

Jim had wished he could wail too. He had never intended for it to be this hard to go.

Forcing himself forward by focusing on the _Enterprise_ , _(Bones, Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, Chekov_ _)_ Jim made himself climb into the cargo bed of the truck with the rest of the Sparrow People who were traveling to Ozu to oversee the shipment of their grain. 

Blank-faced, Spock had gotten in behind him, carrying a heavy looking bag. The night before, Iska had explained that none of her family would be making the journey this time, but that her brother-in-law’s brother Joska lived in Ozu, and would help them. Just in case, she’d given them some sort of bribery hotdish and made sure that Eztl, who was driving, would be able to translate for them.

Once Eztl had closed the tailgate, and a final stowaway _harel_ was pushed out, the trucks had started off, Iska’s family waving at them as the pulled away.

A tarp had been secured over the top of the wooden slatted sides of the cargo bed, but it'd been left open at the back, allowing Jim to watch as the green hills and valleys of the Sparrow World rolled by behind them.

It was beautiful. But there was also something melancholy about it, especially now that they were leaving. It looked like Earth was _supposed_ to look. Before climate change and World War III and the Eugenics Wars had changed it forever. Before the _fall_.

These kinds of light and cheery thoughts kept Jim company as he was bumped and jolted as the truck traveled over the broken road, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Spock as well as the insulating warmth of several other Sparrow People, mouth bitter from the _ake-ake_ leaves they’d all been given to chew to prevent altitude sickness. 

After about an hour, Spock fell asleep—the fucking cheater—and Jim’s thoughts shifted, scratching restlessly over his conversation with Iska from the night before.

There was the fact that he’d unintentionally admitted to himself that there might—okay, that there _was_ —something wrong with his eating. Which was uncomfortable. Especially because it was something he’d avoided thinking about for years now, off and on.

But his brain kept going back to the fruit thing. He couldn’t get his head around it. When Iska had started giving them to him, he’d just assumed she was moming him. A sign of affection maybe, or extra food because she thought he was pregnant. 

But why would _Spock_ do something like that? Day after day?

Jim's first idea was that it might’ve been part of the new leaf Spock had turned over after they’d argued—that he'd been driven by the need to assuage his guilt.

But then Jim realized that couldn't be right. The first fruit had come the day Spock had asked him to play chess. _Before_ they’d argued, when Spock still hated him outright. Once Jim realized this, he didn’t know what to think.

 _We were feeding you_.

Jim wanted to hate Spock for that. He wanted to punch him in the face and say it was none of his business. But at the same time he didn't want that at all. He just wished he understood, because it didn't make _sense_. He should've asked Iska for more of her insights into Spock when he’d had the chance. She clearly had a much better grasp on things than he did.

But it was too late for that, and anyway, Jim knew what he had to do. He had to apologize. Even if Spock told him where to shove it. He’d almost apologized last night before bed—but he hadn’t been able to find the words, and they’d gone to sleep in tense, empty silence again.

Jim bit his lip. Next to him, Spock shifted in his sleep and Jim felt a mixture of anger and confusion.

He was _going_ to apologize. He just hadn't figured out how yet. 

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

When everyone loaded themselves back into the truck after a stretch slash pissing break, the sky was darkening and the air was growing colder. A palpable dampness in the air portended mountain weather.

The tarp was sealed over the gap at the back of the truck to keep in the heat, and all the Sparrow People crowded closer together to preserve warmth, plumage providing insulation as they trundled on.

At last Jim felt the truck start to tip upwards, finally beginning its ascent into the mountains. Jim knew that meant they were getting closer, but with the sun set and the tarp closed, it was almost pitch black inside, and he started to feel edgy. He and Spock were at the back of the cargo bed, but he wished he’d sat closer to the opening. It was too close, too warm. His chest tightened, and the breathing of so many bodies was suddenly too loud in his ears.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jim tried to focus on his surroundings but he was— 

_so hot and thirsty, can’t breathe, overheated air and squeezing fear, feeling the rumble of the truck but unable to see anything in the total darkness, too many bodies in too-small a space_ —

He was being too loud— _they would be heard._ He put a hand over his mouth, pressing as hard as he could to stop the sound. His mouth was filling with saliva and his lungs were too big in his chest, pushing painfully against his ribs, and he heard the wheezing pants of someone who was struggling to breathe— _me_. 

_Stay calm_ , he told himself. This wasn’t Tarsus—

_Can’t breathe._

_Where are we?_

_Can’t breathe._

Chest constricting tighter, Jim was biting his hand, pain jerking him away from the memories. Serrated breaths dragged through him like a saw—too loud.

 _I’m_ **_fine_** _,_ he told himself. _Isn’t Tarsus_ , _not the same_ , _not twelve anymore,_ but his brain wouldn’t listen, tumbling over itself and twisting away from him and he was

_Hiding, scared._

A hand, touched Jim’s shoulder and he tried to scream but he _couldn’t breathe_ so the sound he made was a squeaky whimper. All he could do was hunch in on himself and hope he was hiding well enough. 

_Too loud_. 

He heard someone say something to him but he couldn’t make out the words, and he wanted to hush them but he didn’t have _enough air._

The hand on his shoulder became firmer, a repeated pattern of pressure and Jim focused on that, leaning heavily on the person next to him. He could feel tears leaking out of his eyes, and he tried to say _‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bothering you,’_ but he couldn’t speak, his forehead pressed into the hard bone of a shoulder. 

Finally, air squeezed into Jim’s lungs and parts of the world came back into focus—he was in the bed of a truck, surrounded by people and _Spock._ He'd climbed halfway onto _Spock_ and was clinging to him with a strangle-hold.

Air left him and the world blurred out again. Dark, too warm, _terrified_. He was biting someone’s shoulder.

Air got into his lungs again, and he used it all to _beg._

_“Spock, please.”_

Then his lungs were empty again, unsure if his wheeze had been heard.

Someone was speaking, a familiar voice whose wordshe could barely make out.

_“Yes, Jim.”_

Then he felt a hand at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a sharp, familiar pinch, and then everything went black.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

Exhausted and fuzzy, Jim felt it as they came to a shuddering halt. It was dark, with blurry lights appearing in the distance. His nose was full of a mineral smell.

Jim felt himself being pulled forward and lifted like a rag-doll, his head lolling sideways onto someone’s chest.

He didn’t know where they were or where they were going, but when he tried to open his mouth to speak, he could do no more than gasp. Fear spiked inside him: he needed to be able to move, what if—

“Temporary paralysis is a side effect of a Vulcan nerve pinch,” he heard Spock say as they continued forward. “All is well, Jim. Do not fear.”

 _Spock, safe,_ was all Jim thought before he was out of it again, hearing the muffled sounds of twittering—were there birds?—the smell of minerals growing sharper, and steam—were they in the engine room?—clouding his vision.

Some sort of exchange was taking place, and he heard Spock’s voice. Jim wondered vaguely what was going on, but either his ears weren't working or the language wasn't one he knew. Then lights grew brighter before dimming out again, and he could tell they were indoors by the change in the air.

There was more twittering; a door closed, and a moment later he felt himself being laid down on something thin but soft. He tried to speak again, and this time it worked, even though his voice sounded cracked and rough.

“Spock?”

Jim saw a dark shape moving around in front of him, and a moment later he felt a blanket, then another, placed atop him, weighing him down.

“Yes, Jim. You are safe.”

Closing his eyes, Jim tried to nod, feeling sticky tear tracks on his face.

It seemed like a second later, but probably more than that had elapsed before he felt a cool cloth on his face, wiping his cheeks and forehead which was tacky with sweat.

Embarrassed, Jim tried to mumble a thank you.

“Be still,” Spock said, and Jim felt a tentative hand against his forehead, moving his hair off of his face. “Rest.”

Exhausted and weak, Jim closed his eyes. His heart beat a slow rhythm in his chest, and as he drifted off to sleep, he felt the hand stroke his hair once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: panic attack, flashback
> 
> chapter title is another name for the Milky Way, from an Eastern European legend
> 
> i have obtained the perfect description of spock from this story [here](https://thecommonchick.com/post/124419422883/me)


	17. Ozu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait; this chapter was long and involved and took some extra editing. Thanks to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to the lovely Bee for your help and encouragement 💛  
> Warnings in endnotes

When Jim woke, he was lying on his back on a thin mattress. Above him was a thatched ceiling, and from the floor, he could see that there was a single, un-paned window in the opposite wall, outside of which swirled clouds of mist. Glancing to the side, Jim saw that Spock was sprawled next to him, his face almost entirely hidden by covers. 

Sitting up slowly so as not to disturb Spock, Jim tried to get his bearings. Wherever they were, the ceiling was lower than Iska’s had been, with walls made of wattled branches instead of the rammed earth used by the folks from Xochuil. The air was warmer too, and full of a peculiar mineral smell.

As Jim got carefully to his feet, the mist—or was it steam?—visible through the window thinned enough to reveal a green valley below, and he realized they were in the mountains. Ozu, the red-grain, the truck bed—it all came rushing back. The nerve pinch and his own panic. 

Neck and ears heating, Jim decided not to think about it.

Since they were indoors, he hoped that meant they’d made it to Iska’s relative’s house, and with a last glance at Spock, he decided to see if anyone was out and about.

“Good morning,” said a round, olive green bird who he found outside. He was leaning over a paddock of _harel_ , much shaggier than the ones from Iska’s valley.

“Good morning,” Jim said, smiling politely despite how disoriented he felt.

“Good morning,” the bird said again and Jim realized that this was probably the only Standard he knew.

Just as Jim was wondering how to proceed, an angular brown sparrow woman bustled around the corner of the house. Her face was tired but she nodded at him in greeting.

“Iren,” she twittered, putting a hand on her chest. “Joska,” she said, pointing at the round sparrow man.

“Jim,” Jim said, gesturing to himself. He nodded, bobbing his head the way he’d seen other Sparrow People do, and made a go at saying ‘thank you,’ the way he’d heard Iska say it. 

It was something like _chieahcha_ , and Jim was sure he’d butchered it, but the woman’s—Iren’s—thin face brightened.

 _“Chiaechepichi,_ ” she twittered back. Jim was pretty sure that meant ‘you’re welcome,’ but for all he knew it could be ‘you’re very ugly,’ because unlike Uhura, he didn’t have _unparalleled aural sensitivity._

After a bit of miming back and forth, Iren took him into the kitchen for breakfast: tea and red-grain porridge similar to the kind Iska had served. Once she’d sat him down, they smiled and nodded at each other for about fifteen minutes until Eztl showed up.

“They have told me that the transports have been called and will be coming soon. They will take the red-grain to Zsofia, and I am thinking you will go with them,” Eztl said. 

“How soon do you think?” Jim asked, bracing himself. Among the Sparrow People, he’d heard ’soon’ mean anywhere from a few minutes to a few _months._

Eztl bobbed his head. “A day maybe, or two.”

Gratitude shuddered through him, and Jim took a moment to compose himself before answering. 

Guessing that unlike in Xochuil, there hadn’t been any missionaries to teach Standard in Ozu, Jim helped Eztl carry on the conversation with a lot of gesturing, and in a complicated bilingual exchange that was more like a game of hot potato than anything else, Jim was able to thank Iren for her hospitality, ask her if there was anything mechanical that needed fixing, and explain that his husband would probably be most helpful in the kitchen.

Spock himself appeared partway through this conversation, greeting Iren in the sparrow language much more fluently than Jim had. 

Their eyes met briefly, and Jim did an awkward sort of nod before looking away. If Spock’s face revealed anything, Jim was too distracted to notice.

A few moments later, Eztl was leading him outside, to a leaky sink behind the house to the sound of twittering gratitude from Iren.

Jim had it fixed in under a half hour, and after he’d seen to the back-up generator in what seemed to be the villages’ central building, the rest of the day was spent helping Iren clear out the gulley’s which drained run-off from Ozu’s terraced fields while the men finished unloading the grain.

Not even Jim could deny that the view was spectacular. When you could see it, that is—which was only when the clouds of steam were cleared by the wind, briefly revealing the endless panorama of mountains and hills below. The steam itself, Jim learned on a short walk back to Iren’s house for lunch, rose from a series of hot springs that circled one side of the tiny mountain village. That explained the strong, mineral smell he’d noticed last night.

After a muddy day (Jim was very, very used to muddy days by now), in the early evening, Iren guided him back to the house, and pointed towards the billowing steam.

Jim, covered in mud and used to the Sparrow People’s habits of cleanliness, got the message.

He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do on this good green earth or any other. 

“Thank you,” he said again in the sparrow language. The phrase earned him a big towel, soap and funny sort of linen bathing costume—like bloomers and his undershirt but all in one piece and a blue and white gingham pattern. After washing off the majority of the mud with water from the sink, Jim got himself changed lickety-split, and soon he was trotting towards the hot springs, which he found about twenty yards behind the house.

Gently gurgling through a subterranean outlet, the spring filled a deep stone basin. It was like a giant bathtub—or a birdbath, rather—ceilinged and enclosed on two and a half sides by twiggy, mossy forest.

 _Guh_. _Heaven. Bliss. All the good shit_ , was what Jim thought when he lowered himself into it. The water smelled _good_ —like minerals and balsam—and felt even better. He ducked under the surface, holding his breath and staying under as long as he could. The floor of the tub was uneven, and he could just touch it with his toes in the deepest parts. After he surfaced, he dunked himself several more times, keeping his eyes closed and feeling like his entire body was unwinding in the heat, weeks of soreness and bone-deep cold leaching away.

Eventually he paddled back to the lip where he’d left the soap: lathering up his hands to clean himself and wash his hair.

Afterwards, he leaned against the bank, resting his head on his arms.

He’d spent the whole day trying to work out what he should tell Spock. A million sob stories both real and invented had crossed his mind, but he couldn’t settle on anything. He was ashamed and he wished he could be angry like yesterday—but whenever he tried to feel the desire to punch Spock in his smug face, all he could remember was the comforting grip of Spock’s hand on his shoulder in the dark, pulling him into the heat of his chest, the cautious hand on his hair.

Jim wasn’t really surprised—had been expecting it really—when sometime later he heard quiet footsteps on the forest floor. He didn’t have to look up to know it was Spock. He did anyway, nodding up at him as he padded over, wearing a similar sort of bathing costume to the one Jim had been given, torso wrapped in a towel. 

“May I?” Spock asked, pointing at the pool. 

Jim nodded, turning his head and following Spock’s progress as he walked around to the other side, trying not to smile at the sidelong way Spock was looking at the curls of steam.

But then Jim’s momentary amusement drained away, and his heart skipped at least one beat when Spock unwrapped the towel. Apparently _his_ bathing costume didn’t include a top half.

Immediately noting the stiff, awkward set of his shoulders, Jim turned his head back towards the forest. Jim himself didn’t care who saw _him_ half-naked, but he knew Spock didn’t feel the same way. What with his arm and all.

There was a faint splash as Spock stepped into the hot spring and Jim waited another second before turning around.

Sitting on an outcropping of the opposite wall, Spock had water up to his throat. He was also holding a very round, very yellow fruit above the water. Jim recognized it as the kind with a citrus-like peel and pulpy segments like an etrog, but which tasted sweeter and more sour at the same time. Something inside of him stilled when he saw it.

“This is for you,” Spock said, setting it on the water and giving it one firm push in Jim’s direction. 

Jim watched it sail over. 

“Iska entrusted them to me,” Spock said casually. “She expressed the wish that I continue to dispense them to you in her abs—“

“You sure you wanna finish that sentence?” Jim asked, raising his eyebrows as he picked the fruit out of the water. “You’ve told me—what was it, a million times now? Vulcans can’t lie.”

Spock’s eyes widened and his mouth opened before closing again. Then his expression went all shady. “Technically—”

“Jesus, Spock, I’m _trying_ to say thank you,” Jim said with equal parts exasperation and fondness. 

Spock looked back at him blinking, and after a second Jim looked away. He could feel the silence filling up with so many unspoken things, like ragged ends of an unfinished tapestry. The anger. The panic. _The kiss_. 

Suddenly all the apologies he’d half-planned out in his head all day yesterday and today didn’t seem like enough, and Jim looked down, awkwardly fiddling with the peel of his fruit.

“Jim,” Spock said into the silence, and Jim looked up, meeting Spock’s too-intense gaze. “I apologize for my behavior. It is unlike you to act without reason, but my stubbornness prevented me from seeking a resolution.”

Half of Jim wanted to scream. To chuck the fruit at Spock’s head and leave because Spock wasn’t allowed to get off playing the saint to make Jim feel even worse.

Instead, he started peeling the fruit, concentrating on not losing his temper. Spock was the only person in the world who made him this angry, Jim thought as he pulled a segment off. Spock always had to be perfect, and Jim would never be good enough. He shoved a piece into his mouth and chewed.

It tasted so good. The taste made him feel like crying and he had to clench his jaw to stop himself. Because food hadn’t tasted good for _so_ long, and Spock was the one who’d reminded him.

“Here,” he said tersely, tossing the other half of the fruit to Spock. 

Spock caught it, blinking with his nictitating eyelid. “This was intended for y—”

“Can’t you just—” Jim grit his teeth. The emotional whiplash was really getting to him. “I _hate_ how fucking nice you are. Would it kill you to just scream at me and tell me I’m awful for once?”

Spock gave him a stern look. “Jim, I am not _nice._ Y—”

“But you admit I’m awful,” Jim put in.

Spock gave him an annoyed look and Jim raised his eyebrows.

“That is not the word I would use,” Spock said after a moment.

“Okay,” Jim said, beginning to list on his fingers. “Try selfish, vain, mean-spirited, and a compulsive liar.”

Spock was looking pensive now. “Do not forget arrogant, and capr—”

Jim splashed him.

The water hit him full in the face and Spock sputtered for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes. Jim had time to throw up an arm to block his face, but the water still almost knocked him off his feet, and he had to push his hair out of his face. It’d grown so long that it got in his eyes if he didn’t.

Grinning, Jim considered splashing him back, but Spock quickly took a piece of fruit and put it in his mouth, chewing like it was his job.

Jim flicked water at him anyway and Spock flicked back. Jim laughed. 

He sobered almost immediately. The air between them was thick with tension, and for a moment it was just the two of them, eating fruit in silence and looking at the water instead of each other. 

At last Jim gathered the courage to speak. “I’m sorry for—” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. “—the other night. That was... _really_ shitty of me.” 

Jim knew he should say more. Tell Spock how much he liked him as a person. How much he didn’t want to lose their friendship and how much he looked up to him. But he wasn’t brave enough. This was the point in the conversation where he’d normally try to say something sexy to get out of it all—but that was what had gotten him in this mess in the first place so he bit his tongue.

Even so, Jim knew he was dodging a lot of questions. The look Spock gave him showed that he knew it too. But instead of calling Jim on it, he just nodded and said “The traditional response is ‘there is no offense where none is taken.’" Spock paused. "But as that does not apply in this instance, I will simply say ‘I forgive you.’”

What Spock had just said was tantamount to admitting how much Jim had hurt him, and Jim felt even worse. It was all he could do to maintain eye-contact. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t try to strangle me again,” he said ruefully. “I probably deserved it.”

Spock shook his head, looking serious. “No one deserves such treatment. Physical violence is only justified as self-defense.” Spock looked him right in the eye. “I will never use it against you again.”

“I know that,” Jim said quickly. It was strange to remember the physical fear of Spock he'd had at first. He wasn't sure when it'd disappeared, but he could guess it had been sometime in between seeing him toss children into the air and watching him bake bread like he'd been doing it all his life. “You’re a total softie.” 

Spock looked extremely dissatisfied and Jim wondered why they always seemed to be talking at cross-purposes. 

“You have not always thought so,” Spock said. “You have accused me on multiple occasions of being too exacting, and on one memorable occasion, of being ‘a prudish, tyrannical bitch.’” Jim couldn’t stop himself from wincing at the memory. He’d felt guilty about that for weeks now. “Not without reason,” Spock continued, mouth tight. “On the _Enterprise_ I continually corrected and criticized you without regard for your feelings."

Spock paused, and then continued very quickly. "Although you also implied that I took sexual gratification from this, and I assure you—"

"I know," Jim broke in. “I know. First of all, I shouldn’t have called you that, no matter what I thought. Second, it takes two to tango, and I was a complete shithead right back.” _The only difference is, I’m_ still _a complete shithead._

“Your reactions do not make my behavior more forgivable,” Spock said, his tone as harsh as any Jim had heard him use. "And I am glad you informed me of your perspective, as I would not have realized the gravity of my misjudgment otherwise. Previously I had not realized that I was—” his mouth tightened even more and Jim noticed that two high spots of color had appeared on his cheeks. “— _bullying_ you.”

Jim was about to interrupt in protest, but Spock held up a hand. “You have apologized for your actions, now you must allow me to apologize for mine. As you seem to have forgotten, I am not blameless.”

Jim grimaced. Spock was right. As long as someone was being nice to him in the here and now, Jim was a pushover—but even he couldn’t deny that he’d spent months convinced that Spock was a jerk who had it out for him specifically. Hell, he’d thought that two days ago. 

“Okay,” Jim admitted. “You’re right. I’m curious. Why were you such a dick at first?” He grimaced again, remembering the events leading up to Vulcan’s destruction. “I mean, after everything settled down a bit.”

In the pause that followed, Jim could see something conflicted going on behind Spock’s eyes, and Jim wondered if he was being more expressive than usual or if Jim was getting better at reading him. Steam was curling around his head, and you could almost imagine they were his thoughts: shifting and changing with the emotions in his eyes. 

“You emotionally compromise me,” Spock said at last, breaking the brief silence. He met Jim’s eyes. “After Vulcan’s destruction, it became impossible to separate you from memories that were highly emotional in nature. When I accepted a position aboard the _Enterprise_ , I believed that I could act impartially toward you despite our history.” He paused. “I was incorrect.” 

Spock’s eyes were angry, but for once, Jim was certain that anger was directed inwards rather than at him. Surprisingly...he'd rather it be directed at him.

“Instead of treating you fairly, my attempts to control my emotions with logic caused me to be more inflexible and punitive than I ought to have been." 

There was a certain kind of relief, Jim found, in realizing that he hadn’t been _completely_ crazy. 

“And as I have alluded to,” Spock continued, the spots of color in his cheeks deepening, “When I was a child, I was often provoked by my peers, who wished to goad me into displaying emotion. I believed you to be attempting to do the same, and my reactions were...disproportionate.”

 _Censure was more frequent than praise,_ Jim remembered, the phrase still oddly clear in his mind despite how tipsy he’d been. Across the pool, Spock’s shoulders were slightly hunched, making his collarbones stick out, and Jim could tell how he would rather have admitted anything else other than that. Heart squeezing in sympathy, Jim almost didn’t register the rest of what Spock had said.

“Wait, wait. So you’re saying you didn’t act that way because you hated me and thought I was a stupid slacker who’d swindled my way into the job?”

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Of course not. Not only are you uncommonly intelligent—much more intelligent than myself—but your work ethic and competency are incontestable. And as I have said before, I do not hate you.”

_But what about the times you called me a whore?_

The second the thought crossed his mind, Jim realized what an _idiot_ he’d been. Still was. That word had only ever been in his own head. He’d put it in Spock’s mouth, but Spock had never actually said it. If anything, the reverse was true; Spock had twice told him point blank 'I don't hate you,' but Jim had never even _considered_ believing him until now.

Jim was beginning to wonder if all along, Spock had been the normal one, and _Jim_ had been the cold, awful jerk. The evidence was beginning to mount up. 

“Oh,” he said. “So when you did my paperwork for me, that was…?” Jim trailed off, trying to make sense of it all. Spock thinking he was an idiot was one of his foundational assumptions, and he was having trouble processing all of this. It seemed too good to be true...but it was also hard to distrust somebody who’d been trying to keep you alive for the last month and a half, and who you’d seen help children go back to sleep at 3AM. 

“I was attempting to help you,” Spock said, eyebrows furrowing even more. “Our entire crew was overburdened by the number and rapidity of assignments. As a new captain, it was natural for you to require more assistance. It was my duty as first officer to provide it.”

It sounded so logical when Spock said it, but it sure as heck hadn’t felt that way.

“A week prior to our crash, Dr. McCoy informed me that my behavior was affecting your mental health. I attempted to rectify the situation by providing more aid.” Spock paused, his eyes going rather dispirited. “However, I do not think my attempt was successful.” 

Jim couldn’t help it; he laughed. The whole Spinoza thing felt so long ago, and in retrospect it was a little funny how badly they’d misunderstood each other. “Jesus, Spock, warn a guy next time. I thought it was an intimidation tactic—and it completely worked by the way, I almost shit myself I was so scared.” 

Spock looked a little ashamed. “That was...not my intention.”

“Well, if something’s ‘irrelevant and rather simplistic,' then you’ve gotta say it,” Jim said, raising his eyebrows. Spock winced ever so slightly at the quote, and Jim tried not to laugh again. “Just kidding—I had to, okay? I still have PTSD from that.”

Spock blinked, and Jim remembered the events of last night. PTSD probably wasn’t the best thing to mention right now. 

“Anyway, I forgive you,” Jim muttered. “No one would blame you for thinking I was trying to provoke you, especially after that first time. And half the time you were probably right: I had no idea how else to get back at you. The rest of the time it was probably just my natural annoyingness.” Jim brightened a little. “You really shouldn’t feel bad. I bet I emotionally compromise a lot of people—I emotionally compromise Bones just by existing.”

Spock’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were still solemn. There was another pause in which Jim subtly tried to get a piece of fruit out from between his teeth with his tongue.

“Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“Yesterday night, in the truck bed. I felt your fear.”

 _That’s one way to put it. I_ bit _your shoulder,_ Jim wanted to say.

“Were you re-experiencing an event from Tarsus IV?”

The corner of Jim’s mouth twisted. Spock was the only person he knew who asked questions _that_ bluntly. Jim had used to think it was because he was a bastard. Lately, he was beginning to suspect it was something else. Even if Jim didn’t understand why, Spock seemed to care about the truth in a way he never would. That had even been the deal during their first chess game. The thing that was most important to Spock was—what had he said? That Jim explain his behavior without lying.

Lying was the _only_ way Jim knew how to explain his behavior. It was how he’d survived, why he hadn’t ever gone so far into self-destruction mode that he couldn’t come back from it. But now…

Now lying was literally eating him alive and it was hurting Spock too. 

Even so, Jim knew he didn’t have to answer. He could say something equivocal and Spock would see through it and be disappointed, but he'd probably leave Jim alone.

...But Jim didn't _want_ to be left alone. He was so tired of lying to Spock. And in some ways, his question was a way out. It wasn’t the _‘why did you kiss me?’_ that he’d been dreading and anyway, Spock had already seen Jim have a panic attack, so in a way, the worst was over. To be honest, out of the long horrible list of questions Spock could’ve asked, this was the one Jim minded answering the least.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I spent a couple days in a grain truck. Me and a bunch of other kids.” Jim shrugged. “We were hungry and scared, but it wasn’t that traumatic really. I don’t know why I went off like that—I don’t even mind talking about it.”

Spock tilted his head to the side. “I am uncertain of the chronology. When you, and the others not on the list of those selected for execution w—“

Jim looked up sharply. “I never said which list I was on.”

Spock blinked. Then his eyes widened. “I do not understand.”

“There's no way to," Jim said. He wished the world made as much sense as Spock seemed to think it did. "A lot of Kodos’ decisions weren't rational. He was definitely insane.” _And racist, homophobic, and xenophobic, etcetera_. “Anyway, I was on Tarsus in a youth rehabilitation facility. Everybody there—all the other kids—were on the bad list. Regardless of aptitude scores, or anything else.”

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “How did you escape?”

Jim’s mouth twisted again. “It was a secure facility, so guards were told what was going to happen in advance. One of them liked me because of—” Jim gestured distractedly at his own face. He'd known how to use it by then. “—and he snuck me and some of the other kids into a delivery truck and paid off the driver. I’m not totally sure what happened after that. Either the driver got scared and ditched or he went for help because the truck stopped and didn't start again. I think it was about a day later Starfleet found us.”

It had all been fucking terrifying of course. No one had told Jim what was happening, but he’d known all the same that they’d left the other kids there to die. He’d felt like a coward for doing nothing, huddling in the bottom of that truck for days as sirens wailed. The dark had been suffocating and the smell had been terrible, and Jim had wondered if they would all die locked inside. 

_We told them it was a game_. _T_ _he younger ones. So they wouldn’t panic and be too loud, or use up all our oxygen._

On the way back home to Iowa, Jim had felt guilty for not having done more and for being so scared. But all of that had quickly been swallowed up by the nothing inside him. It had all made so much sense at the time. He’d already known he was bad and that nothing meant anything, and being on the list was just more proof. 

“That should not have happened to you,” Spock said with conviction, even though ‘should’ was probably illogical.

 _Thank you for believing that_ , Jim wanted to say. Instead he shrugged. “I mean it sucked, but we were all okay. It really doesn’t matter anymore.”

Spock looked like he disagreed, but the water was getting too warm, and Jim pulled himself out. Sitting on the edge, he let his legs dangle into the spring. The wet bathing suit was clinging to him uncomfortably, and he kind of wanted to take it off entirely, or at least unbutton the top half—but he didn’t think Spock would appreciate that.

Across the pool, Spock's shoulders were just below water's surface, and his skin had gone yellow-green from the heat. The color was a lot like the fruit Spock had brought, and Jim wondered how he ever could have thought Spock was ugly.

It had been a long, long time since he’d thought of Spock that way.

Sure, Spock definitely wasn’t _good-looking_ , Jim could see that—but there was something...arresting about his face all the same. Jim struggled to find a word for it. Dignity? Self-respect? Integrity, maybe? None of those seemed to quite cover it. Jim wasn't sure, but he thought that maybe it’d always been there without his knowing. Only now, it was _all_ he could see. Spock’s batty ears, his sallow skin and bent nose—Jim had to really focus on them to remember that they were there. 

Back when he'd used to hate Spock’s face, maybe Jim had just been hating that _thing_ , whatever it was. Jim had been able to see it, and been jealous and angry that Spock had it, and that Jim couldn’t take it away.

He was so glad he hadn’t been able to. 

By now Jim was completely pink with the heat, and he could feel his cowlick sticking up. Since he already looked ridiculous, he reached backwards and grabbed his towel, wrapping it around his head in a turban and leaning back on his hands.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him, and Jim grinned back. Part of him was worried—not sure why Spock hadn’t asked some of the more pressing questions, but mostly he was relieved. Actually, scratch that, he was feeling _good._ They were on track again. Spock didn’t hate him anymore. Spock might even _like_ him, and maybe, somehow he could get Spock to touch his hair again.

“Why don’t I go back to the _Enterprise_ on my own, and you can just stay here for the rest of your life,” Jim said, smiling fondly. “You’re obviously never gonna get out of your own accord.”

“My current temperature is extremely logical,” Spock said primly, and Jim laughed. Not even because what Spock had said was all _that_ funny, but mostly because he just felt happy that things could go back to normal. 

“Yeah? I bet,” Jim said when he stopped laughing. Since Spock was Vulcan and hated cold, Jim supposed the hot spring might feel even better to him than it did to Jim. “I went to a place like this when I was a kid, ya’know.”

“I was unaware that there were geothermally heated springs in Iowa,” Spock said. Jim was pretty sure he’d sunk another couple of inches into the water.

Jim snorted. “We were in Utah. On a road trip.” Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust at the memory. “Everybody was naked and old and it scarred me for life—No seriously,” Jim insisted when Spock’s mouth twitched. “I was four—you can’t unsee that stuff.”

Spock’s mouth twitched harder. “Vulcans do not take ‘road trips.’ What is their purpose?”

“I'm not sure,” Jim said thoughtfully. His mom had taken them on one whenever she lost her job, but he hadn’t known that at the time. All he’d known was that she cried at weird times and that they had to sleep in the car sometimes. “My mom took us to see a bunch of national monuments and weird tourist attractions. You know, like the world’s most ginormous bug and stuff like that.”

“The world’s largest…bug?”

“Yeah. In Rhode Island. His name was Nibbles.”

Spock gave him a suspicious glance.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jim said defensively. “Nibbles is real. Also he was a termite, so his name made perfect sense.”

“Fascinating,” Spock said without any trace of irony that Jim could detect.

“Jeez, you’re such a nerd,” Jim said, shaking his head and standing up. It was getting dark, and in the distance, he heard thunder roll. “Do you want me to bring you your dinner here? Or were you ever planning on getting out?”

Spock gave him a long-suffering look and Jim snickered. “You’re gonna get all pruney,” he said, picturing Spock’s greenish fingertips going all wavy like frog skin.

“Vulcans do not prune,” Spock said, but the dignity of Spock’s tone was sorely diminished by his obvious contentment.

“You’re kind of a hedonist, you know that?” Jim said, realizing as he spoke that it was true. Spock liked food, sleeping in, and he was always finding the warmest places to be. How had Jim never realized it before?

“I am not,” Spock said with fervor. “It is merely that _you_ are a lunatic.”

“No—oh my god, you totally are,” Jim said. t was probably because Spock was a yuppie. “I just didn’t see it until now.” 

“My actions are entirely reasonable,” Spock disagreed. “Your perspective is skewed by your own self-enforced asceticism. I understand the rationale for 'waking up with the sun,'” Spock made a face that conveyed that he nevertheless did not approve, “but waking up _before_ the sun is entirely illogical. Furthermore, enjoying one’s food is entirely…”

Jim was listening, he really was, but mostly he just couldn’t stop smiling as he watched Spock _,_ a _Vulcan_ , defend the logic of enjoying simple things. Jim’s highest idea of relaxation was a warm shower and maybe a book—but now he really wanted to know what _Spock_ did when he got back to his quarters.

Jim got a vivid image of him, padding around very well-heated quarters in slippers and a robe, drinking tea and enjoying how logical he was being.

“Jim? Are you alright?” Spock was asking.

“Oh, yeah, fine,” Jim said. _Do you have slippers?_ he wanted to ask but thought better of it.

Thunder rolled again, still far off but closer this time. Probably deciding he didn’t want to be rained on, Spock reached for his towel.

Jim pulled his own towel off his head and hung it around his shoulders, and a moment later, Spock joined him, wrapped tightly in his towel and they headed back for the house.

After changing back into clothes Iren lent them, they helped get dinner on the table, and were shortly joined by several of the folks from Xochuil who had come up with the red-grain and were related to their hosts in one way or another. Everything was good, and Jim’s appetite was better than it had been in days, but he felt the absence of Iska and her children. Iren and Joska were friendly enough, but no one at the table spoke more than a smattering of Standard, and Jim sort of missed getting his hair pulled and trying to make sure none of his food got stolen.

Rain began to patter on the roof, and Jim joined Iren when she got up to do the dishes. While the other olive-feathered Sparrow People stayed drinking fermented red-grain at the table, Spock came to help too, and Iren gave him a look of surprise.

That made Jim sad. Oqchr and Iska hadn’t had a noticeably unequal relationship—if anything, Iska had seemed to be more in charge—but after having lived as a ‘woman’ for more than a month with the Sparrow People, Jim had gotten a pretty clear sense of the gender binary. Generally, it was expected that sparrow women would be quiet and dutiful, in contrast to the males. 

Used to living into other people’s expectations, Jim himself had started developing several ticks within his first week on the Sparrow Planet in response: a slight, but noticeable habit of lowering his eyes and dipping his head when he entered a room, and an extra second of hesitation before he spoke.

All of which would be a bummer to unlearn once they were back on the _Enterprise_ , and made Jim even more impressed with Iska and the way she was raising her daughters. It also made him want to have a sit down with Uhura and the communications department about gender dynamics on the ship. They hadn't had much time for that sort of thing, but this experience was making him wonder what they could be doing better.

After the dishes were done, it was fully dark, and Jim and Spock went back to their room, the continued laughter and talk of the Sparrow People filtering in under the door.

Pulling his shirt over his head, and then sitting down to work off his boots, Jim noticed a slight charge in the room’s atmosphere. Jim cursed himself. It had to be the stupid kiss. Why hadn’t Spock asked about it? Was he going to now?

“Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you wish to read?” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Jim saw that Spock was holding up the paper-wrapped rectangle Iska had given Jim yesterday.

“Oh,” he said, relieved for more than one reason. “I thought I lost it.” He hadn’t seen it in the room that morning, and it hadn’t been in the truck, so he’d assumed it was just gone. That was one of the things he’d avoided thinking about today—so seeing triggered a wave of surprised gratitude. 

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Jim said, finishing undressing before getting under the blankets and leaning his back against the wall. Despite being in the mountains, Ozu wasn’t as frigidly cold as Xochuil—probably because of the hot springs—but the air was still a bit nippy.

Spock turned on the oil lamp that Iren had lent them and pulled up the covers. By now, it was raining hard, making the roof of the house sound like a timpani. Or like _‘para-para,’_ which was the sparrow word for rain.

Jim was psyched at the prospect of Spock reading again. They hadn’t had much time for that, or for playing chess after harvest had begun.

“I think we were at the part where the mole and the rat were talking about the toad—god, that guy sounds like a bastard,” he said, trying not to sound as excited as he felt and failing. 

“Is this yours?” Spock asked, pulling a folded piece of paper from between the pages and holding it out to Jim.

“No,” Jim said, taking the paper and opening it. Inside was a series of stick figures standing on a green hill done in bright, implausible colors. Jim counted eight people, although it was hard to tell since two of them were very small, and one was essentially a blue circle.

“I think that one’s you,” Jim said, pointing to a tall, blue-green figure with...ears? like a bat who was holding hands with a yellow one with blue dots on its...face? Jim was pretty sure that was him. “And I’m guessing Hebe drew this since she gave herself a sword and giant muscles.”

"She was formidable enough without such assets," Spock said mildly.

"You can say that again," Jim said as, carefully, he folded the paper back up and handed it to Spock to put in the book.

“Were you like her as a child?” Spock asked as he accepted the paper.

“No,” Jim said, almost wistfully. He could see why Spock might think that. “I was nothing like her. If you can believe it, I was quiet and well-behaved.” Hebe was the sort of kid Jim _wished_ he’d been. 

“What were you like?” Jim asked as he lay down. 

Spock looked thoughtful. “According to my mother I was...extremely assertive.”

Jim laughed. _That_ squared.

“Apparently I was also rather creative when it came to my culinary creations,” Spock continued. “I believe my parents consumed more than one meal that they would have preferred not to, for the sake of humoring me.”

Jim was valiantly trying not to crack up at this point. The idea of a tiny, flour covered Spock watching sternly as his parents pretended to enjoy truly awful cakes was _too much_ , and he had to turn his face into the pillow so he didn’t lose it completely. 

He was almost back when he heard Spock mutter something about ‘humans and their incomprehensible senses of humor’ and he was gone again.

Eventually Jim calmed down enough for Spock to begin reading, his voice tinged with a little exasperation.

Jim was soon lulled into contentment as he listened, Spock's voice blending with the _para-para_ of the rain on the thatched roof. It was a good story and the Mole kind of reminded him of Spock. Being close to Spock felt good too: his head a foot from Spock's thigh under the blanket. Jim kept stealing glances at his hands, wondering if he could get Spock to touch him again.

But he didn’t dare try. He knew how much he was getting away with already. There were still lies between them, and all Jim had a certain sense that things couldn't stay like this forever. Nevertheless, he decided to enjoy it while he could.

Maybe a half an hour later, he became vaguely aware that Spock was closing the book and turning out the light.

“Spock, you kinda remind me of the Mole,” Jim said sleepily.

“Do I?” Spock asked.

“Yeah.” Jim yawned. “He’s a good guy, and he’s nice, ’n a little dipshitty…” 

Jim was asleep before he finished his thought, leaving Spock to wonder about the linguistic nuances of the word ‘dipshitty.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: reference to implied past self-harm (not explicit)  
> Tysm to [@startracked](https://startracked.tumblr.com/) for the adorable drawing of smol Spock baking 💛
> 
> Jim is like: can u play w my hair but in a bro way


	18. Tashlich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta and to Bee for the last minute look over 💛
> 
> Warnings in endnotes. NOTICE: the warnings for this chapter are a bit more intense than usual. I recommend checking them out before hand; they contain some spoilers tho, so it's up to you.

Jim didn’t even make it through the night.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

In his dream, he was in the engine room of the _Enterprise_ —except everything was made out of old clay pipes like the kind in Xochuil. All of it was leaking, engines groaning as water dripped down the creaking pipes in rivulets, pooling on the floor. Jim was darting around, trying to stop up the cracks—but every time he fixed one, a new leak would appear somewhere else, and he was growing desperate. The water was up to his thighs and it was getting frustratingly difficult to move. 

In the distance, a low klaxon began to sound: a keening wail. Frantic and angry, Jim sloshed through the water to go turn it off.

Only, when he turned the corner, he saw that it was his mother making the sound. She was crying, and her tears were streaming into the leaking pipes. 

“Mom!” he shouted, trying to wade towards her through water that was now up to his chest. But she couldn’t hear him, and his arms and legs were getting too tired to fight against the heavy water. 

It lifted him off his feet, pulling him away.

“Mom!” he shouted again. But she didn’t hear and it was too late because he was being washed out the door.

“The river is time,” he heard Iska’s voice say as he was pulled underneath the surface.

Heavy body dragging him downwards, Jim lost his bearings, tumbling over and over in the dark—when suddenly he was hit in the side with the force of a freight train. Pain shot through his ribs and he tried to scream, but his lungs were crushed. When he came to he was lying on his stomach on rough asphalt; he could feel the harsh heat from the road against his cheek.

Eyes blinking open, he caught movement in his peripheral vision.

“Did we kill it?” lisped a little boy with wispy blond hair and hazel eyes. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just sleeping,” said a man whose face Jim couldn’t see, putting a hand over the little boy’s eyes. “Come on back to the car, Jim.”

Paralyzed, Jim tried to shout, to tell them he needed help, but his mouth worked soundlessly and he couldn’t move his body. Soon the car was driving away, the sound of country music issuing out the windows, leaving Jim lying on the road, still trying to speak.

Footsteps approached, and he wondered if they'd come back after all.

“What the fuck are you doing?” a hard voice asked, and Jim felt a boot push him over onto his back.

He blinked up at the smoggy sky above him, seeing a man with blonde hair was staring down at him. His eyes, Jim saw, were like chips of ice.

The man took a drag on a cigarette and blew the smoke out his nose. “You look like shit,” he spat.

 _Help_ , Jim tried to say, and this time it sort of worked—escaping from his mouth in a choked gasp.

The blonde man laughed. “You want _me_ to help you?” Lip curling, the man cocked his head to the side, considering. “Sure, why not?”

The man crouched down next to Jim, extinguishing his cigarette on the sidewalk. He took something out of his pocket and pushed it between Jim’s numb lips.

“Here, swallow this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Jim tried to spit it out, but the man with cold eyes held his mouth shut, chuckling.

“Easy,” he said, rolling Jim onto his stomach again. “You’ll start feeling really good in a minute.”

Struggling to breathe, Jim woke up with his face pressed into a pillow. He tried to push himself up but he couldn’t. There was a heavy body pressing down on top of him. Jim tried to struggle, but his arms were trapped.

“Please,” Jim begged into the pillow. “Please stop.”

But the body was pressing down on him like the lid of a coffin, and there was nothing he could do.

“Please stop,” he said again into the pillow, damp with his own saliva and sweat.

“Jim?” someone asked, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Waking up for real this time, Jim’s scream was muffled by his mouthful of pillow and the thunderous sound of the rain. 

Spock was to his right, sprawled out several feet away and blinking at him sleepily.

Their eyes met in the dark, and Jim realized that he was hard. 

Biting back another scream, Jim scrambled up, pulling himself free of the blankets, thinking only about _away_.

A moment later he was outside in the downpour, bolting away from the house. The tangled forest loomed up before him in the dark, and Jim slowed. A part of him considered just walking into it and getting so lost he never came back out.

Instead, he crouched down by the hot spring, just visible as his eyes adjusted. Pressing his head against his knees, Jim tried to calm down. The leaves were thick enough that most of the rain didn’t make it through, and the ground was almost dry by the warm pool.

By now, Jim’s _reaction_ was gone, but he was breathing too fast and his stomach was roiling with nausea. He dug his fingernails into his calves, hoping that the pinch would wake him up, and that when it did, he would be safe back on the _Enterprise_ , and that all of this had just been a dream.

“Jim?” Spock asked from off to his right, and when Jim looked up there he was: a tall figure holding an oil lamp in the dark, standing several feet away. Water dripped from the end of his nose.

Too late, Jim realized that his own face was wet with tears as well as rainwater, and he looked away hoping Spock hadn’t seen. He was an ugly crier.

“Jim,” Spock said again, and Jim heard a rustle and a clink as Spock set down the oil lamp. A moment later he felt Spock sit down next to him. Their shoulders brushed and Jim scooted away. A hand splashed into the pool behind him, and he stilled.

 _I’ll get you dirty_ , he thought, wiping his face on his arm. 

Spock didn’t scoot any closer, but Jim could tell at a glance there would be no getting him to leave. A powerful sense of déjà vu washed over him. 

“Go on,” he said, feeling abruptly tired. His voice was hoarse but surprisingly steady, easily audible over the patter of rain on the leaves.“I know you want to ask.” 

Someone else might have responded with ‘are you sure?’ or ‘do you think now is the best time?’ but Spock wasn’t like that. He always took Jim at his word.

“For what purpose did you kiss me?” Spock asked. “I sensed duplicity—or rather, that you did not desire to do so.”

Jim grimaced, realizing he wasn’t ready for that one yet. “How about we circle back to that. Can you start with something else?”

“Why were you sent to the rehabilitation center on Tarsus IV?” Spock asked without missing a beat, like he’d had all these questions on the tip of his tongue all yesterday. Or even longer. He probably had, and had only been restraining himself for Jim’s benefit.

Jim exhaled slowly through his nose. The mineral scent of the pool filled it when he breathed in. It was a good smell. “I drove my dad’s old car off a cliff into a limestone quarry.”

Glancing at Spock, Jim answered the question he knew would be forming in his eyes. The were-you-trying-to-kill-yourself-question. 

Jim smiled a little. “I know how that sounds, but it wasn’t like that,” he said. “I jumped out at the last minute. It wasn’t a suicide attempt—it was more like…”

He trailed off, remembering. The rush of insane joy, blasting the radio as the cloth top flew off behind him in the dust, adrenaline pumping in his brain like the time he’d gotten shnookered on vanilla extract. Freedom. Escape. _Possibilities_. And then the quarry edge roaring closer, and the gut-deep repulsion he’d felt at the idea of plunging over with the car. Of everything being over. Jim had been _free_ and he hadn’t been ready to give that up yet.

“I mean, I _did_ think about not jumping out,” he went on. “But—well, it’s hard to explain. At the time, doing it felt like a _good_ thing. More like taking my life _back_ than anything else.” Jim looked over at Spock, shrugging. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Spock nodded in understanding, folding his hands on his lap. “Why _did_ you exit the vehicle?” he asked. 

That wasn’t the question Jim had been expecting. Everyone who had ever talked to him about it (his mom, Sam, the lawyers and therapists, Bones) had gone with ‘why did you do it in the first place?’

Jim felt a small swell of fondness. “Would you think I was being facetious if I said I don’t believe in no-win scenarios?” 

He'd always meant that when he said it. It hadn't been just to sound cool at the hearing; he really didn’t believe in them. He _couldn’t_. If he did, he’d have to admit that’s exactly what his life was. The no-win scenario Kodos had said it was when he visited the rehabilitation center and decided none of the kids inside deserved to live.

Spock shook his head. "I do not doubt you," he said quietly.

A pause followed. Listening to the steady sound of the rain and feeling the occasional drop land on him, Jim fiddled with the edge of his bloomers, waiting. For the spell of calm to break. For Spock to ask the next question—the last one.

It was funny, Jim realized, but by kissing Spock to distract him from this very question, Jim had actually made this moment inevitable. There was no way out but the truth.

“Jim, why did you endanger your life in this way?”

Jim was so messed up inside that he almost smiled at this too. “It’s a shitty story,” he said, picking up a stick and starting to draw idle designs in the ground between his feet. 

“I am listening,” Spock said.

Jim could feel his heart beating in his throat. He focused on his doodles. It wasn't _that_ big a deal. It really didn't have to be. Just a stupid thing that had happened over a decade ago—but right now it felt like his whole body was full of all the terrible things he'd ever told himself.

 _Never let anyone know more about you than you than you know about them_. _Men don’t talk about it. No one cares about what you think, they just want to fuck you with their eyes while you talk._

Jim told the voices to leave him alone. Spock wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the person Jim had made up to hurt himself in the beginning; the one who called him a whore and made him feel like it was true. Spock was good in so many ways that Jim could barely understand. All the same, he knew Spock would never look at him the same way after this.

That thought was almost enough to shut him up. But Jim knew somehow that if he didn’t talk now, he never would. And _it_ would come back, again and again, twisting him up inside and making him say all sorts of awful things he didn’t mean to keep Spock out. At least by being honest now he could do some good. He could let Spock know he hadn’t been _trying_ to hurt him with the kiss thing. Maybe that was the only good thing he could do.

“My mom had a lot of boyfriends,” he said. “And I mostly didn’t care about that. We—Sam and I—didn’t interact with them all that often.” _Unless we were being used as weird bargaining pieces in the relationship, treated nice because whatever guy she was dating wanted to get closer to her_. Although, at that age Jim hadn’t understood what kind of ‘closer’ they wanted.

“When I was nine my mom started dating this new guy and everything was different,” he said, unable to help the way his mouth curved upwards. “He was great. Like, funny and nice, and he made my mom really happy, and us too." _He took Sam and me to baseball games and helped Sam apply for this scholarship for a science college in Connecticut that we never would’ve been able to afford otherwise._

“He knew all these people,” Jim continued. “At the time my mom had a job waitressing in San Diego—she had to commute, but it was steady so he babysat us a lot. Anyway, he was great,” Jim said. _He’d order pizza and let me choose the movies. He talked to me like I was smart enough to understand. He could always tell when I was sad and he’d hug me. He told me I was smart and funny and handsome and that he loved me. He was always_ there _for me._ “I loved him so much.” _It was almost like...having a dad._

“Except it was weird,” Jim said. “He had this thing where he liked to help me tie my shoes.”

 _Even though I was ten by then, and I already knew how to do that_. “Anyway, Sam turned seventeen and went off to college.” Jim shrugged. _And tying my shoes started to be untying my shoes too, and then taking them off and tickling my feet_. “Everything that happened after that was...really predictable.”

_I wanted to please him, I didn’t understand._

Jim closed his eyes against the memories he so successfully buried. The _months_ he'd gone not saying anything. Of hearing ‘I love you Jim, you're so perfect for me,’ as he stared at the beige wall of his bedroom, numb, numb, numb.

_And I got upset and scared, and I saw the keys in the car, and it seemed like the only thing I could do._

Jim looked at the pattern he’d scratched between his feet. A series of slanted lines, up down, up down.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

The design of the wallpaper in the bedroom. Jim wiped the marks out with his heel.

“That’s the whole story,” he said. All the important parts anyway. The details didn’t matter as much. Jim had been vague, but Spock had already been about to ask the question, or one like it, days ago. He would know what Jim was saying. “Eventually I drove the car off the cliff. The court said my mom was ‘an unfit guardian’ and they sent me to Tarsus for rehabilitation.”

There was a short pause and then “Was your mother aware?”

Jim almost flinched. Spock really didn't believe in pulling punches, did he? “No,” he said, shaking his head. He set down the stick he’d been holding and unclenched his hands. “She still isn’t. _I_ didn’t even know until I was twenty. She was doing better by then and I decided it would upset her too much.” 

Bones knew. So did the therapist he’d gone to his second year at Starfleet. Pike probably knew more than he let on, although Jim had never told him in so many words. Sam he wasn’t sure about. Sam was pretty good at ignoring things that weren’t right in front of his face, and Jim had never felt the need to tell him. It was just…easier not to tell, especially when he hadn’t even told himself for so many years.

Even now he felt like he wasn’t telling the truth. That everything he was saying had happened to somebody else. 

Did Spock think he was lying now? Because—

_That’s not something that happens to men._

“That is not fair to you.”

Jim shook his head. “My mom’s not _like_ that.” _Not like your mom sounds_. “She’s not…stable. You don’t understand—it was my fault that—”

“What happened was _not_ your fault,” Spock broke in.

“I know that,” Jim bit out. “But all the choices I made after were.” This was the hard part to say. Bad shit happening to you _wasn’t_ an excuse for the bad shit you did to other people.

“After I got back, I fucked off out of Iowa and wasted _years_ with my head in the sand. I barely called home, I worked shit jobs, did a shiton of drugs, and I didn’t have sex sober until a year after Pike scraped me off of the floor of a shit bar.” He paused. “Oh, and I have a shitty eating disorder—I lied to you about that too. I’m sorry about that. And for being such a shit person to you, and saying all those awful things.” _I don’t even know why you’re still listening to me. I just wanted you to like me so bad. I don't know why I did it so wrong._

“Jim,” Spock said quietly. “I have already forgiven you.”

Glancing at him, Jim could see that he meant it. Relief blossomed like pain in his chest. Unable to speak, he nodded. He’d felt dead inside while he’d been talking, the same way he’d felt when he’d told Bones.

The same dizzying relief was setting in now too. Like a huge weight had been lifted off him, and he didn’t have to carry it anymore. Making a quick decision, he stood up. “I’m going to go back inside now. Wanna come?” It wasn’t cold out here, so near the warm, pool, but it was dark and damp out here and probably not comfortable for a Vulcan.

“I will go with you,” Spock said quietly, standing too. 

Jim shot a sideways glance at him. The way he’d said it made it sound strangely momentous, like he was saying he would go with Jim _always_ or something. 

Shaking off the impression, Jim headed back for the house with Spock at his side.

Far, far below them, Jim could see that the valley had filled with water again, the water visible as a dim outline through the dark lines of rain.

Jim remembered what Iska had said about giving things to the water. 

_“An offering? A sacrifice?”_

_“Yes. The river is time, and when the valley fills with water, it needs an offering. Everyone must give something to the river so that they stay safe when the waters come.”_

A moment later he was brushing his bare feet off and stepping inside, tiptoeing into their room. He had no idea what time it was, but it was still fully dark outside, no sign of morning in the rain. For all he knew, he’d been asleep for less than an hour.

Despite being a bit damp, they got back in the bed, both on their sides, facing each other. 

It occurred to Jim that he had slept in a bed with Spock every night for over a month now. He hadn’t liked it at first—it’d made him uncomfortable as fuck, but he’d never, not once worried that Spock would do anything bad _that_ way. And part of him had _always_ trusted Spock in that way, even back when he’d thought Spock was a jerk, he’d always known, deep down, that next to Spock was a safe place to be. Maybe the safest place there was.

Now he felt small and silly, but he just wanted— 

“Will you touch my hair again?” he asked before he could stop himself, closing his eyes because he didn’t want to see Spock’s look of disgust if Spock said no. It was just, that had been very hard, but now it was _over,_ and the childish part of Jim felt like he deserved a reward.

There was a feather light touch against the hair at his forehead, and Jim bit his lip to hold back a gasp.

He felt the blankets shift as Spock scooted closer, running his hand through Jim’s hair again. 

“Thanks,” Jim said, eyes closing as Spock tucked a piece of hair behind his ear.

Spock said something in Vulcan, and Jim shifted closer, so that they were barely inches apart.

The light touch felt _good_ , and the back of Jim’s throat was starting to get sticky and wet, like it had a lump in it. But he’d had such a weird, emotional couple of days and he didn’t want Spock to see him cry again.

“Jim,” Spock said, and Jim was shocked to hear how thick his voice sounded. He opened his eyes to see that _Spock_ was crying. His eyes were wet—and Jim hadn’t even known that Vulcans _could_ cry.

But he knew _exactly_ what to do when people cried. Without hesitation, he closed the last distance, wrapping an arm around Spock. 

He’d been wanting to hug Spock since the night he’d come back all sad from the _harel_ pen, over a month ago now. Still he wasn't sure if he'd made a mistake until Spock pressed into it, putting a tentative arm around Jim in return. Without his glasses, Spock was a bit blurry this close, and he felt cool. Maybe a degree or two cooler than a human. Jim pulled him closer, using his other hand to tug the covers up around them and feeling it as Spock pressed his head into his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured, rubbing Spock's back with a firm press. He was hugging Spock, but it made _Jim_ feel better. He was _good_ at this. Even Bones had admitted he was good at hugs. ( _“Your commitment makes up for your technique, octopus.”)_ Definitely a compliment.

“You do not have to do this,” he heard Spock say into his shoulder.

“I know,” Jim said, rubbing Spock’s back through his nightshirt. Jim _wanted_ to do this, so long as Spock would let him. Thinking this, he used his other hand to reach around and smooth Spock’s hair. Spock sniffled, and Jim bit back an inappropriate laugh. 

Instead, he kissed the top of Spock’s head, pressing his mouth briefly against Spock’s hair before pulling back. Spock blinked up at him with his nictitating eyelid— _exactly_ like a gecko, and Jim really did laugh.

Spock sniffed, clearly trying to sound like his usual, haughty self and Jim wondered if he should move away. But Spock was still holding on tight, and Jim didn’t want to let go either. Maybe both of them needed this right now.

“What does it mean when you do that?” Jim asked him.

Spock blinked with the eyelid again. “Do what?”

“Never mind.”

Spock was silent for several moments, but Jim could tell he hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

“It _is_ gonna be okay, you know,” Jim said, rubbing Spock’s back again.

“It is not your job to comfort me."

“I like doing it though,” Jim said. “And it’s not _your_ job to make it difficult.”

From his oddly angled view of Spock’s face, Jim could tell he was trying to think of something to say.

“Yeah, I _dare_ you to think of a comeback for that one,” Jim said.

Spock’s eyes narrowed, and then Jim almost screamed as a very cold foot pressed against his calf.

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ he gasped, shoving a smug-looking Spock onto his back. He was 100% sure it’d worked because Spock had let him. “Do that again and I’ll make you walk the plank when we get back.”

“Starships do not have planks,” Spock said, looking up at Jim like a goof.

“Don’t test me,” Jim grumbled, snuggling back into Spock’s side. _God,_ that was good. Spock felt warmer now, and was surprisingly good at hugs for a guy who looked like he had so many sharp angles. And it felt…really good to be this close. Like that good feeling he got whenever he was near Spock but times a hundred.

“Hey Spock?”

“Yes, Jim?” 

“I’m glad we’re friends.” 

Jim felt Spock’s chest expand once, very rapidly, and then contract like a stifled gasp. Jim craned his neck to look at Spock’s face, which was totally blank, except for how his eyes had widened just a little and his mouth was open. He looked almost dazed, except his eyes were too bright.

“Are you okay?” Jim asked.

“Yes,” Spock said. “No. Can you repeat what you said please?”

“‘Are you okay?’ or ‘I’m glad you’re my friend?”

Spock’s eyes widened a little more, and Jim gasped in pain, feeling his entire body flood with with…joy? Gladness? But much, _much_ stronger than he’d ever felt before. It was so strong it almost _hurt_. Like his heart would burst.

“I apologize,” Spock said, and the feeling lessened to bearable levels. “I—I did not meditate today. Please pardon my lack of control.”

All the muscles Jim had involuntarily tensed loosened, and he sagged against Spock, feeling like he’d just hiked a mountain, his body full of sleepy, post-exercise endorphins. God, he wondered sluggishly, how did Spock go around acting like a normal person when he felt stuff that much? Let alone look as impassive as he always seemed to be. _The control...Boggling..._

“S’fine,” he mumbled, into Spock’s shoulder. “Think you fried my synapses, but I’ll be fine in like, a week.” 

Eyes were closing of their own accord, Jim didn’t quite catch Spock’s response.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that maybe the reason he felt so good around Spock was because Spock had _that_ kind of feeling inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nightmare, suicide mention, discussion of past coercion and recurring sexual abuse of a minor (not explicit but pls read with care), mention of an eating disorder, toxic masculinity 
> 
> Because it might not have been clear, the kid with hazel eyes is young Jim. In this story he got his eyes done at some point, probably for vanity reasons.
> 
> Also! @tempered-char did some amazing 'Spock Translations' for this story! They took his dialogue from chapter's 1 and 2, and translated it into the subtext that Jim is missing. Please check out [Ch.1](https://tempered-char.tumblr.com/post/617664849456103424/spock-translations) and [Ch.2](https://tempered-char.tumblr.com/post/617951679266062336/spock-translated-2).


	19. Rat and Mole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the beta. Thanks for being patient guys, quarantine has made my schedule a bit wobbly. I am also only two inches tall and I have tiny hands and pressing keys is very difficult for me.  
> Warnings in endnotes
> 
> "Dreaming of one day being as fearless as a mango./As friendly as a tomato."  
> — _Self-Portrait as So Much Potential_ , Chen Chen

Jim let the comm clatter to the ground.

Ignoring the sounds of frustrated worry issuing through it, he turned and started running.

_/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \_

The last leg of their journey from Ozu to Zsofia was more arduous than Jim expected. He woke up the following morning with Spock sprawled out half on top of him: adorable with his big, crooked nose and long eyelashes, one cheek smooshed against Jim’s chest.

Caught between whether to get up and risk waking Spock, or staying where he was and embarrassing him anyway, Jim’s decision was taken away by a fuzzy mountain _harel_ when it decided to launch itself onto his stomach.

Gasping and kicking, Jim shoved the _harel_ off of him—only to have it dig its claws into Spock, whose pacifism didn’t extend to being used as a pin-cushion. Waking in a blur of blankets, he actually _snarled_. His hair was sticking up in the middle and he looked so feral that the poor animal _,_ probably sensing the approach of death, beat a hasty retreat with its tail between its legs.

Jim tried to keep his sniggering under control, but Spock had snarled, so what was he _supposed_ to do? He shut up fast when Spock glared at him though. His sticky up hair and bleary expression was a lot less funny when paired with the pure menace in his eyes and his half-bared teeth. 

Eventually everybody calmed down in time for Eztl to knock on their door and tell them the grain transports had arrived. 

There were two of them, both large, and capable of low off-ground flight. Jim was surprised by this. He’d grown so used to antiquated tech. 

Once the red-grain was loaded, he and Spock said final thank you’s to Joska and Iren. This done, Eztl helped them negotiate passage with the doubtful sparrow pilots, neither of whom could speak Standard. But after fermented red-grain exchanged hands, it was quickly agreed that Jim and Spock would be allowed to hitch a ride. Eztl was entrusted with last goodbyes for Iska’s family, and thanked for his trouble with two jars of jam that Spock produced from the bag Iska had given him with.

Jim should’ve known it was full of food.

Even with Iska’s provisioning, the next three and a half days were pretty miserable. They were spent wedged between a bulkhead and the grain sacks behind the cockpit: a cramped floor space that was too small for either of them to stretch out their legs, worse for Spock because he was so lanky. With only a few short pit stops and one long one at a weigh station where the drivers changed out, this meant Jim’s joints got stiff quickly and his ass was perpetually sore.

Worse, being physically cramped made Jim feel mentally cramped. As hard as telling someone was, having them know was even harder, and he kept having to push out horrible thoughts _(shame, should’ve just kept my mouth shut),_ even though he knew those thoughts were just another facet of the trauma.

He couldn’t even test the waters with light conversation, since the rushing sound of the engines made talking impracticable. There was nowhere to escape to, and Jim worried that he was bothering Spock with his thoughts or all the touching, since their elbows and knees were pressed together, despite whatever arrangement they tried.

Surprisingly, Spock didn’t seem to mind much. Whenever he fell asleep (which was often), his head always wound up on Jim’s shoulder, and whenever Jim tried to make more room, Spock said it was fine. Eventually, Jim put two and two together and realized it was simply because he was the latest warm place the Vulcan had sussed out. Being used as an electric blanket _probably_ shouldn’t have felt so good, but Jim was above caring. 

At long, long last, Jim woke sometime in the middle of the third night. The transports had stopped, and he could hear voices. Outside the window, he could see they were at some kind of docking station, and at first Jim thought they’d arrived in Zsofia. 

But, when he staggered groggily outside, he was hit with a chill wind— _much_ colder than Ozu or even Xochuil—he realized that it couldn’t be. He could see the outlines of giant peaks all around them, and Joska had said the city was in a valley. 

His suspicion was shortly confirmed by a terse exchange with one of the transport pilots. (“Zsofia?” he’d asked and earned only a short head-shake in reply). From what Jim could tell, they were in some sort of sparrow settlement. Artificial illumination shone off cobbled streets—an odd mixture of old and modern technology. 

Spock joined him a moment later, and Jim shot him a worried look. Together, they watched dumbly as the sacks of red-grain were unloaded onto palette jacks by _ushanka_ -clad Sparrow People, then wheeled across a rail yard and loaded into several open boxcars on a long freight train. _That_ was when Jim realized the docking station was actually a _train_ station, and more importantly, that no one was going to help them get aboard.

Spock was all for trying to find the conductor, and bribing them with more of Iska’s jam. 

“Spock, you don’t understand,” Jim said, standing under the eaves of the station house. It had started raining again. “I’ve waited my whole life for this moment—we are _so_ gonna freight-hop.”

“Although I am unfamiliar with this term, I assume you mean that you wish to board this locomotive illegally.”

“Got it in one—besides, this way you’ll get to keep the jam.”

Spock looked undecided, and Jim grinned up at him hopefully—and his jam argument _must’ve_ been convincing, because Spock agreed without any more protest. 

Falling rain made the darkness complete. But if anyone in the rail yard _had_ been paying attention, they might have seen two silent shadows dart out from under the eaves of the docking station, slip in between two tankers, and scale a boxcar.

As it was, no one saw them. They’d waited till the coast was clear and gotten lucky with the first boxcar. When Spock twisted the hatch off—man, massive strength was _such_ a bonus in an accomplice—the inside was filled with sweet smelling hay.

It was a lot like the stuff they’d slept on that first night in the barn, Jim thought as Spock tugged the hatch back into place after they’d dropped inside.

Even dripping, Jim was exhilarated, shaking his head like a dog to rid it of water, muffled giggles bubbling up inside his chest as Spock recoiled to avoid the drops. Jim was glad for the rain. He felt like it had washed away some of the weariness and exhaustion of travel, and he was having the time of his life pretending he and Spock were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 

Rain drummed on the train; the metal of the boxcar was cold, and it was ventilated (thankfully)—but that meant freezing air began rushing in when the train lurched forward and began picking up speed soon after they’d stolen aboard.

Jim had a great time trying to make Spock a nest in the hay so he didn’t get cold.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t die,” Jim said, piling more straw on top of a confused Spock. “You always spend a million years tucking yourself in.”

“Thank you, but that is not ne—”

Spock broke off with an exclamation when Jim charmingly dropped a big pile of straw onto his head.

Spock gave him a Vulcan-death-glare, and the resulting wrestling match was brief: largely consisting of Jim trying to rub straw into Spock’s hair and being thwarted by Spock’s obviously superior strength.

Somewhere in between having both his wrists pinned one-handed and seeing the amusement spark in Spock’s eyes, Jim realized something massive had shifted in their relationship.

Or maybe it wasn’t so much that something had _shifted_ , exactly. It was more like something had been moved out of the way or a firewall crashing down, and what had already been there shone through, ten times more obvious than before. 

The obvious thing being that Jim was attracted to Spock. Like, _very_ attracted. He just hadn’t realized it because attraction had never felt like this before: warm and strong and building instead of a brief flare of almost painful lust that had more to do with forgetting than it did with anything positive. 

And although the realization happened in a moment, Jim knew the attraction had been building for much longer. He had no idea how long. Maybe since Spock had started to be nice? Since before? Jim was pretty sure it was since before. There’d probably always been something. An attraction Jim hadn’t wanted to admit it was there. It was what had pushed him to keep at it for all those hopeless months: the _brightening_ he’d always felt in Spock’s presence, even when he hadn’t actually liked him. Like someone had turned up the volume.

Now everything was abruptly clear. They’d just been rough-housing, the way Jim interacted with a lot of his male friends—pushing, jockeying for position in a mock strength contest—except Jim had realized midway through how very _sexual_ it felt. 

Maybe because Spock had rough-housed back, and Jim wasn’t used to seeing that, or because the interaction been colored by the crush Jim hadn’t realized he had until just then. 

Had Spock noticed? It was impossible to tell.

Either way, it was the middle of the night, and eventually both of them settled in, side by side under a mountain of hay, and Jim was left to ponder this new development as Spock drifted off next to him.

He wasn’t much for thinking about that sort of thing though, and he soon concluded that it probably wasn’t a big deal. 

He’d been attracted to a lot of people, but he’d never had so many good reasons not to act on it before. Spock wasn’t some girl he could pick up at a bar for a night and be a jerk to in the sack, or some dude who’d be up for rough sex: both iterations on the same theme of ensuring that intimacy stayed decidedly un-intimate.

This was different. 

Not only was Spock Jim’s first officer, but Jim _liked_ him. A lot. Which wasn’t usual for him. He never felt very strongly towards his sexual partners, and the closest he’d come to the deep _feeling_ he had for Spock was how he felt about Bones. 

But that was like comparing apples and oranges. He and Bones had over three years of solid, dependable friendship, whereas he and Spock’s relationship had only begun a little over six months ago, and had always had an intense, almost painful edge.

Anyway, Bones, for all his gruffness, had always had an almost _maternal_ vibe that was both comforting and an instant libido killer. 

_Spock,_ by contrast, wasn’t maternal by any stretch of the imagination. Which meant there was nothing to counterbalance the crazy stew of feelings Jim had for him. Feelings which were so much more painfully full of desire than the ones he had for Bones. Feelings which definitely extended to wondering what Spock would be like in bed. 

It was something he hadn't thought about before, except to disparage or out of purely idle curiosity. 

Okay, that wasn't _completely_ true. ...Maybe not even a little bit true. But his musings definitely hadn't been as _insistent_ as they were now.

Would he be very controlled and unemotional? Bossy? Or would it be like those times he’d seen Spock let loose a little and enjoy things? Spock _was_ a closet sensualist after all, so maybe he’d be shameless and wanton about it. Jim's stomach swooped at that one. Would Spock beg for it? _Fuck._

Honestly, _all_ of those options turned him on.

Glancing over, Jim saw that Spock was asleep, half-buried in straw. 

His face was wan from travel, the skin under his eyes bruised like an apple. Despite this, he looked relaxed. Younger and _innocent,_ in a weird way, with all of his prickly contradictions smoothed over by sleep.

Jim looked away. Spock probably wouldn't want to be thought about that way. Jim knew he was sometimes bad at gauging what was appropriate, and that Spock was more uptight than most people. Anyway, Spock was straight. Or ace for all Jim knew. 

In the end, he just shut his eyes and decided to chalk the whole thing up to being sex-starved and having had no one but Spock to ogle for the last month or so. He just needed to get laid was all.

The next morning Jim woke from a good dream under the blanket of hay, snuggled into Spock again. He could’ve moved, but he was warm and half-asleep and that was fine for now. The darkness had just ebbed to a dim gray, and he dozed against Spock’s warm collarbone until he felt him begin to stir. 

Waking up more fully, Jim pulled away and crawled out of the hay, shivering in the cold air. 

The hatch hadn’t been fully closed, so Jim was able to get it open and he stick his head out. Wind tousled his hair and the rising sun was invisible behind the clouds. It was early morning, and countryside was racing past them on one side, the coastline of an ocean or inland sea on the other.

When he ducked back in, Spock was waking up, still buried in the hay. Only his eyes, with their too-large irises, and the tops of his pointy ears stuck out. He blinked at Jim, shifting deeper beneath the hay.

 _God,_ _he’s cute._

“Good morning,” Jim said, embarrassed and somewhat annoyed to hear how his tone turned those two words into _‘I like you so much.’_ It was a good thing Spock wasn’t fully awake yet.

Kneeling down, he dropped onto his hands and crawled back into the hay. The morning air was nippy, and it was too cold to stay away.

“Good morning,” Spock murmured sleepily, turning on his side to face him. 

Jim involuntarily shifted closer. At this distance he could see the faint green of Spock’s eyelids and the slight puffiness of his mouth. His eyelashes were the same color as his freckles. A light brown that was closer to gold just now. Like his face was the fucking Milky Way or something.

Forcing himself to stop staring, Jim thought of something to say. 

“Can Vulcans dream?” he asked. “Last night my dream…well, I’m not sure if it was _mine._ ”

Spock blushed. 

_Like a green apple_ , Jim thought, a bit hungrily. 

“Vulcans, according to research, do not dream,” Spock hedged. 

Jim waited. 

“But I do,” Spock admitted. “My attempts at meditation have been inadequate during our journey, and I believe my mind ‘wandered,’ in a literal sense. I apologize for the invasion.” 

Jim waved a hand as if to say _‘don’t worry about it.’_

“So was that you?” he asked. In his dream, there’d been a chubby toddler with a bowl-cut, waddling around and trying to play hide and seek. _Trying_ because he wasn’t very good at it. He kept giggling and giving himself away. There’d been a woman in a green skirt too, with Spock’s honey-brown eyes and a very human grin—the one it _felt_ like Spock had whenever he told a joke—and she’d had to pretend _very_ hard that she didn’t know where the toddler was, because he was giggling so loudly.

“Indeed.” Spock’s eyes were amused, and Jim felt warm under the glow of his attention. “I was never an adept participant of ‘hide and seek.’”

“…And that was your mom?”

“Yes.”

He didn't have to say anything more for Jim to understand the tangled emotions in Spock's eyes. Jim squeezed his arm. Spock blinked with his sideways eyelid, and Jim wondered how many people had touched him since he'd lost his entire planet _and_ his mom. How many people had taken care of him or gone out of their way to be nice to him? Jim had seen how close he and Uhura were on the transport pad, and there'd been rumors that they were dating, but Jim, who had paid closer attention to that gossip than he should've, had never heard it confirmed. Whatever the case, Jim wished more than ever that he'd been less of a dick. Spock was...a lot more sensitive than he let on, and if Jim had actively tried to get him to break. Spock hadn't been a ray of sunshine either, but Jesus. The fact that Spock wasn't completely shutting him out was probably a miracle.

Several hours later (during which Spock had produced several magical savory pies and fruits from Iska’s seemingly endless bag of provisions, like he was Mary Poppins or something) Jim checked the hatch again. He saw that they were approaching a huge, sprawling city by the sea. Above it, his eye caught the telltale vapor trails of shuttles, and his heart lifted. He found himself believing, for the first time since he’d seen the broken gas distributor, that they were really going to be able to go home.

“We’re gonna have to jump when the train starts to slow down,” he said when he lowered himself back down. “You know that, right?”

Before Spock could protest or glare, Jim was levering himself back through the hatch and out onto the train’s steel roof. Several moments later a slightly annoyed Spock was joining him, his hair getting tousled by the wind. 

One hop off a slowing train, a long walk through the countryside, and a short, bumpy ride on the back of an apple cart later, they arrived in Zsofia. 

The apple cart dropped them off in the middle of the city, where some kind of farmers market was taking place. The crowds of Sparrow People looked different than the ones in Xochuil. Their feathers were dappled, and their clothes were silky and brightly colored; their accents were lilting—they were probably speaking an entirely different language for all Jim could tell—and most of the sparrow-women wore head-wraps and long skirts. Jim wondered if it was a religious thing, and whether his trousers were immodest.

And they _did_ get several weird looks—Jim couldn’t tell if it was for this reason, or for their alienness and their country bumpkin clothes—but a sparrow lady in an orange scarf selling giant squash spoke strongly accented, but intelligible Standard, and they quickly got instructions to a government-run spaceport.

Jim was all for hacking into the first long-range comm they saw, but Spock put his foot down, and insisted it would be stupid to get sent to jail when they were this close. 

Grudgingly, Jim agreed, and after waiting in a very, very long line that Jim had _not blamed Spock at all for_ , _not at all_ , they were finally shown into a small round room with a large desk, behind which sat a Sparrow Person.

Their story was apparently above his pay grade, because they were told to go to a different government building, where they were given a queue card and told to wait in an even _longer_ line. There were a few aliens in this one at least, and eventually they were shown into another, equally round room, with another Sparrow Person sitting behind an even larger desk.

After a long, meandering conversation that almost made Jim, and even _Spock_ lose his patience, they were _finally_ allowed to use a long range comm to hail the Federation under this planet’s asylum laws. The _Enterprise_ was out of range, but they were able to reach Starbase 14. 

When the call connected, there was a vociferous clamor on the other end of the line—which made the Sparrow Person who was monitoring them ruffle his feathers at them indignantly. When it finally died down enough, Jim confirmed that yes, this was Captain James T. Kirk speaking, yes, he was alive, yes, so is Mr. Spock, we’re both fine. 

They’d been declared M.I.A., as Jim had suspected, but after answering several detailed questions, he was informed that the _Enterprise_ would be hailed, and that transport would be arranged, probably the next four to five days. The relief he felt was too big for words.

Now that their story had been confirmed by _official sources_ , the Sparrow Official suddenly became a lot more genial. Calls were made and rapid twittering ensued. The Official's higher-ups must’ve said ‘be nice to the weird aliens from the Federation’ because soon after he and Spock were shown to a very swanky suite of rooms in an adjacent building and told that someone would bring them food and clothes.

Both of them were exhausted in the way that traveling always made you exhausted, but Jim perked up a little when he saw the rooms. They were way nicer than any motel he’d ever stayed at, and while the adult part of him was just grateful for the prospect of a shower and a soft bed, the kid inside him got excited at how fancy everything was.

And when he saw the bathroom, he almost cried with happiness. The bathtub was round—again like a birdbath—and it was _beautiful._ The hot spring had been nice, yes, but there was something different about being _inside_. 

“Oh god, Spock, there’s hot water,” he groaned from inside the bathroom, holding his hand under the stream of steaming water. “Here, come feel, it’s amazing.”

“I will wait till you have finished,” he heard Spock say through the open door. 

“Kay, I’ll be quick,” he said, already pulling off his clothes. “Oh god, there’s _bubblebath.”_

Jim stepped into the shower. “Oh hell, _fucking_ _hell._ That’s amazing,” he said, feeling the hot water gush over his face and shoulders. “Sorry, I’m probably going to live-narrate this entire process for you.”

“I had realized as much,” came Spock’s dry voice from the other room.

“I can stop if you want,” Jim said casually, pushing his hair out of his face. God, it felt good to be naked. It was so liberating. Jim knew better than to say _that_ out loud. 

A pause. “You may continue. I had almost come to believe that you did not enjoy any material things. It is…pleasant to know that you are not austere in all matters.”

“I feel like your mental image of me is whack,” Jim said, tipping his head back and letting the water pour over his neck and chest. “Like, I think you think I’m a lot tougher than I am.” 

Jim had never thought of himself as ‘austere.’ Was he? Before the Academy, he’d never settled any place long enough to accumulate the kind of stuff most people seemed to have, and by the time he got to the Academy it just seemed too late. He’d always attributed it was happenstance more than anything else. 

But now, when he thought about his empty quarters, his laughably small wardrobe...and when it came to food. Actually, Spock might have a point. 

“I believe your own mental image of yourself is, as you say ‘whack,’” came Spock’s voice from the other room.

Snorting at Spock’s use of a colloquialism, Jim accidentally inhaled a mouthful of water down the wrong pipe and then had to cough; Spock asked if he was alright, and Jim choked out ‘I’m fine,’ as his eyes watered.

When he finally stopped coughing, Jim chose one of the fancy-shmancy soaps at random. And, despite accidentally filling the room with a large number of pink, surprisingly durable bubbles, he managed to clean all the sweat, dirt and tiredness of their journey off.

The bathroom door was already partway open, but he heard Spock knock.

“Yeah?” he asked, sticking his head and shoulder out from behind the curtain. Part of him had been hoping that all his describing would get Spock in here, but he hadn’t really thought it would work.

“They have brought us clean clothing,” Spock said. He was standing in the doorway with his eyes averted, holding a neat pile of clothes. 

He looked uncomfortable, and Jim again wondered if it was because he was being too sexual. The thought felt more like a worry this time. Jim didn't know how to _not_ be sexual, and the close quarters weren’t helping. Jacking off wasn’t an option without more privacy and Spock—his whole physical _self_ —was right _there,_ and there was nothing Jim could do about it. 

He wasn’t handling it well, needless to say. He’d had such a clear rule about not touching Spock and not getting in his space, but after the last few days of close contact, the lines felt blurred.

And for Jim, the lines were _always_ blurred. His boundaries between platonic and sexual affection were almost nonexistent, and that gave him pause. Maybe he just wanted to be close to Spock. And the desire he felt to kiss Spock, to get him naked and see what kind of sounds he'd make—maybe all of that was just Jim confusing sex and friendship _._

Jim also got the feeling that Spock probably took sex a lot more seriously than he did. So trying to kiss him was a bad idea.

Besides, Spock was way out of his league. Jim was good-looking, sure, but Spock was smart and sophisticated and kind and _good_ , which was better. 

Anyway, Jim _liked_ the way Spock looked. A hell of a lot. Too much.

Ducking back behind the curtain, he heard Spock say “I will leave them on the counter.”

A moment later, the bathroom door closed. To Jim, it felt a bit like the sun had gone behind the clouds. Which was stupid. Spock wasn’t _sunny._ He was taciturn and rude and a total kill-joy a lot of the time. None of that, of course, explained why being around him felt like sitting in front of those sun lamps; like finally knowing what it was like to get enough Vitamin D.

Pushing those thoughts away, Jim finished up quickly, and changed into the clothes that Spock had left him. With the addition of a floral, dark blue headscarf, they were similar in shape to the clothes he’d been given in Xochuil, except with better, slimmer cuts and ankle-length skirt instead of practical trousers. They were clearly made out of fancier materials too, and stiffer, dyed in brighter colors and decorated with more elaborate embroidery. Flowers and birds spreading outward from the wrists and hems, making the outfit look more like a kebaya than anything else. Jim figured he probably looked like Bones’ grandma. All he needed was a glass of sweet tea and a charming accent, _bless his heart_.

Two months ago, he would've felt humiliated by the comparison. Like the feminine clothing somehow stripped away some of the protective walls he used to keep people out. Or that Spock would think they meant something they didn't.

Now, on the other side of so much, they were just a silly joke. A miscommunication between alien species that didn't have to reflect on Jim's complicated relationship with masculinity. He supposed he could've corrected the mistake...but that would probably mean more trouble on the part of their hosts. And as always, the self-effacing Midwesterner inside him balked at asking for accommodations. Anyway, he reflected, he'd probably blend in better this way. 

Spock's shower was almost twice as long as his, and Jim tried not to spend the whole time imaging him naked. He failed spectacularly, but at least he'd tried. 

He was made to regret his failure when Spock came out of the bathroom. Flushed green from the shower as he dried his silky hair, he looked neat and impeccable in pressed trousers and a long tunic, buttoned up to his pale throat and batik-dyed in warm blues. Jim had to pretend to fix his shoe to avoid ogling.

It was late evening by then, and a Sparrow Person appeared like clockwork to take them down to the commissary. It was full of long tables crowded with twittering government officials and dark windows, and smelled amazing. 

The Sparrow People here were very efficient when it came to food, because soon they were sitting down at the end of a table with cups of tea and plates full of fancy looking food. Weird stuff like a toasted grain dish and puffed dough that tasted like stilton and which Spock said were similar to _tahdig_ and _gougères_ respectively (Jim had no idea what either of those were) and something like rice pudding with golden raisins in it, and at least twelve different kinds of mushrooms and something that looked like hot chocolate but wasn't. 

And vegetables. Attractively arrayed and sliced so thin they were almost transparent. 

Jim made a face at them.

“Do you truly dislike them so much?” Spock asked, pitching his voice above the twittering that surrounded them. 

Jim half-smiled. “No, not really. Just a bad habit.” He took a drink of the hot chocolate stuff, which ended up tasting spicy instead of chocolatey. “I like corn though," he added brightly. "Does that count?"

Spock looked at him witheringly, and Jim smiled at him to show he felt no remorse.

“What was your occupation prior to Starfleet?” Spock asked after a moment. His eyes were bright with curiosity, and it made his face look like an undiscovered country—full of subtle, intriguing mysteries. 

Ugh, Spock and his questions though. Jim wished he wouldn’t ask so many.

He reminded himself that he liked that quality. Besides, it wasn't his job that he was ashamed of, and more the way he'd behaved.

“I was a mechanic. Construction and stuff,” he said, waving a hand for emphasis. Spock followed the movement with his eyes. “What about you? What were you before Starfleet?” Jim asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Promise I won’t tell if it was something illogical.” 

Just as Jim was asking the question, Spock brought a spoon full of the rice pudding to his mouth, and Jim’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the movement. The way lips. 

_Fuck._

His body flushed with heat and he wished he hadn’t seen it. Spock’s lips were surprisingly full and soft-looking when they weren’t pursed in a severe expression, and it took everything Jim had not to replay the moment in his head again and again. Spock sliding the spoon in between his lips, opening his mouth and sucking it a little as he pulled off and—

Flustered, he took a hasty sip of tea. If the tops of his ears turned red, that was his business. There. This was proof that these feelings were just a combination of some kind of stir-crazy and Jim being too sexual about everything. There was nothing inherently erotic about Spock’s mouth opening and taking—

 _Inappropriate,_ Jim reminded himself. Even he knew it was probably not cool to fantasize about your friend when he was right in front of you. But honestly, he felt like he was being so restrained already. And besides, he'd always spent too much time looking at Spock, only he hadn't realized why until yesterday.

Spock, totally oblivious, swallowed—and Jim did _not_ stare at his throat bobbing, or wonder what it would be like to kiss him with that taste still in his mouth.

“I was primarily a student,” Spock said, which Jim had known. "However I also was a lyre instructor on occasion."

Grinning, Jim leaned closer, elbows sliding forward an inch. “Really? You play?” 

Spock nodded, answering Jim's increasingly bemused questions with surprising openness. Surprising only because Jim always assumed other people were like him, and didn't like talking about the past.

As he listened, Jim grew sleepy. And maybe it was because he was tired and not paying attention, or for some other reason, but Jim was nearly finished eating before he remembered to feel self-conscious about it. When he thought back, he realized he hadn't felt intensely uncomfortable about it for a while now—which made some sense because he'd gotten used to being around Iska's family—but right now he was in a large room full of strangers. Jim supposed he'd been too busy being lecherous about Spock. 

When they were done, Spock took their trays to a cycler for them. Jim thought about snapping that he could do it himself, but he decided he was too tired for a fight. The knowledge that he _could_ start something if he wanted to was enough.

“Thanks,” he said instead, adjusting his headscarf as he stood to get up. 

Spock nodded, his kind eyes— _god,_ _he has such pretty eyes_ —smiling. Jim reflected that he could always argue with him tomorrow if he wanted.

Back in the room, of one mind, they changed into the underclothes that had appeared courtesy of the Sparrow People's efficiency.

“I’m gonna miss the suspenders,” Jim said as he climbed into the bed. Spock’s new outfit didn’t have them, and Jim already felt like he would be mourning the loss for the rest of his life. He bit back a moan as his back—sore from the cramped transport—sank into the heavenly mattress. “Oh hell, that’s amazing.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, and Jim pressed a smile into his pillow. That expression drove him _bananas_ in more ways than one.

Still, Jim noticed Spock hanging back a bit. For a moment he was confused—but then he got it. There was only one bed, but there was also a couch and it wasn't cold enough that body heat would be an issue. 

...But on the other hand. This bed was at least double the size of the one in Iska's house, and after so many weeks, what was the point?

Jim rolled his eyes, and sent Spock a look that said 'Really?' 

Blinking his acceptance, Spock found the light switch and got into bed. It really _was_ big, and Jim mourned the return of distance. It felt more profound after the physical closeness of the last few days and he reminded himself that what had happened in Ozu was a one-off, once in a lifetime thing. He didn't get to have that again.

But wth the lights off and his eyelids heavy, he thought about the freckles on Spock’s back. How he wanted to play connect the dots with them. With his fingers. His tongue.

  
  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a little toxic masculinity but he's getting better
> 
> First date guys ;) also, a little 'you almost make me believe in miracles' reference.
> 
> Thank you so gosh darn much to [@uglysockperson](https://uglysockperson.tumblr.com/) for the drawings. Please check them out on tumblr, their Spirk art is so lovely and fairytale like. The five here don't actually belong in this chapter, and I'm going to redistribute them, but I just wanted everyone to see how beautiful they are *trails off weeping* 💛 Also! Thank you to and [@startracked](https://startracked.tumblr.com/post/619213976754110464/got-distracted-in-class-by-doodling-some-much) for the adorable drawing of Spock and Jim cuddling and to [@reine-glacage](https://reine-glacage.tumblr.com/) for the drawing of peanut Jim being smitten with Spock 💛


End file.
